Dark Rabbit
by Silbrith
Summary: Neal and Peter join forces with Sam and Dean Winchester in West Virginia when Neal receives disturbing news about his cousin Angela. Crossed Lines story #4, a fusion of Supernatural with the Caffrey Conversation AU of White Collar.
1. The Con That Never Was

_Notes: Dark Rabbit takes place after the events in Fireflies at Midnight and Nocturne in Black and Gold and is a gift to Penna Nomen, the creator of the Caffrey Conversation AU. Belated Happy Birthday, Penna! This story features Angela Caffrey, one of the many delightful OCs Penna invented._ _The first chapter includes a short recap for new readers. I've also written a post on_ _the status of the key players at the beginning of the story for our blog. The post is called "Destination: Dark Rabbit." See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information.  
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 **Chapter 1: The Con That Never Was**

 **Federal Building, New York. Thursday, July 28, 2005.**

 _What's wrong with this picture?_

When Peter got off the elevator on the twenty-first floor of the Federal Building, he paused at the entrance to the bullpen to analyze the scene in front of him. He'd learned long ago that puzzles could be hiding anywhere. When he was a child, his mom used to challenge him with pictures where something was out of place. She'd ask, _What's wrong with this picture?_ It was a game which quickly became a habit.

And today he found a puzzle. Neal had rolled his desk chair next to the desk of Agent Clinton Jones. The two appeared to be engaged in a serious discussion as they pored over printouts of spreadsheets. On the surface, there was nothing strange about that. But from the snippets he overheard, the topic was an unlikely one. Identity fraud was not normally on Neal's radar screen.

For Jones it was understandable. He'd become the White Collar specialist on the burgeoning crime problem. A few weeks ago he'd gone to D.C. on a special training assignment. The sharp rise of reported incidents had made it become a high priority item for the team.

But forgeries and art crimes were Neal's bread and butter. For anything else, he'd developed avoidance into an art form. If Neal was interested in identity fraud, there had to be an angle.

Peter approached the pair. "Nothing wrong with Nick Halden's credit card, I hope," he asked, referencing one of Neal's go-to aliases.

Neal smiled. "Nick's safe, but my cousin Angela is nervous. She called me from Shepherdstown, West Virginia. That's the location of Shepherd University where she's doing her field work this summer. Several of her college friends have had their identities stolen, and she's concerned she may be next."

Shepherd University was about an hour's drive from D.C. Angela had been spending the summer working with underprivileged kids on a project sponsored by the Global Education through Music Initiative, a nonprofit Neal's cousin Henry also volunteered for.

"I looked it up in our database," Jones said. "We've been crunching the numbers. The Baltimore and D.C. areas are experiencing an unusually high incidence of cases."

"When did it start?" Peter asked, as he picked up one of the printouts.

"Around three weeks ago. It makes me wonder if an organized crime group has set up shop in the area."

"Perhaps I should ask Diana to check with her newfound best buddy, Agent Ruiz," Neal said, glancing at her desk. "She's probably at lunch with him now."

Joseph Ruiz was currently the acting head of the Organized Crime Unit, a position he wouldn't hold for much longer. He'd been discovered to be leaking information to the fugitive hedge fund manager, Vincent Adler. So far no action had been taken against him since White Collar intended to use him to transmit false reports to Adler.

Ruiz had been conducting a recruitment campaign on Diana to induce her to switch to Organized Crime. His interest in the attractive agent was not purely business related. Ruiz had been hinting for several months he'd like to go out with her even though he knew she was already in an established relationship. With the full blessing of her partner Christie, Diana was taking advantage of the opening she'd been given. She'd informed Peter she was going out to lunch with Ruiz today—her second in a week.

"Three of Angela's friends in Shepherdstown have been hit over the past two weeks," Jones added. "A local eatery may be playing fast and loose with credit information."

"Angela's paying with cash whenever possible," Neal said. "The Bureau's prepared a pamphlet on protecting personal information which I'll send to her."

As Neal started to stand up, Jones stopped him with a gesture. "Before you take off, I have a question for both of you. This weekend I babysat my nephew Ethan. He can't stop talking about all the fun he had at astronomy camp. It's been over a month. I would have thought he'd have moved onto something else. Instead he keeps asking me if it's June yet so he can go again. You guys made quite an impression."

In June, Columbia University's astronomy department had sponsored an astro camp in western New Jersey. Peter and White Collar's tech expert Travis Miller led the camp with Neal and Mozzie helping out. The camp had been a success, but it was a close call.

Although Peter couldn't confirm with one hundred percent accuracy that Neal was a vampire magnet, the signals all pointed in that direction. Since the spring he and Neal had gone on three road trips. During two of them, they'd had to contend with vampires. No vampires on the third trip, but a witch nearly sent them up in flames. At the astronomy camp, Ethan and a young girl wandered off just as vampires showed up at the park. Through quick work, Neal managed to keep them safe, and the kids were never told who their pursuers were.

Worrying about which criminals from Neal's past might return to cause mischief had become routine. Peter had now been forced to add supernatural beings.

He glanced over at Neal and saw a half-smile playing on his lips. After much soul-searching, Peter had decided to keep the supernatural incidents out of the Bureau files. Neal argued that in the interest of full disclosure, they should go ahead and inform the rest of the team. But if they did, they'd also have to inform Hughes. Peter knew in advance what the reaction of the Special Agent in Charge would be. He'd order Peter to undergo an extensive evaluation with a Bureau-approved psychiatrist.

Peter had done his due diligence. He'd checked the Bureau files for any records of vampires or witches. The few times an agent had reported a paranormal event, they'd gone back later to recant their findings.

It was Peter's considered opinion that the encounters he and Neal had experienced didn't fall within Bureau jurisdiction. He'd filed a report about the Dutchman which was accurate as far as it went. The demonic bits were unnecessary and did nothing to explain what had occurred.

"Kids and their stories!" Jones said, rolling his eyes at Neal. "Ethan told me an incredible tale of how he and his girlfriend Amita"—Jones paused to snort—"Girlfriend! The kid's only seven years old."

"He takes after you," Neal said. "A natural born lady-killer."

 _Good. Keep it up. Distract him. Maybe he'll forget his question._ "How is Helen?" Peter asked, keeping any hint of desperation out of his voice. "The D.A.'s office treating her well?"

Neal's smile broadened. He knew what Peter was doing. Deflection worked for Neal. Couldn't it do the same for Peter? His mention of Jones's girlfriend should veer the conversation onto safer ground.

He was so tempted to say he had to leave for a meeting, conference call, anything. But if he did, could he trust Neal not to divulge anything? Neal had returned from camp feeling quite smug at having eluded a pack of vampires. The fact that the time he encountered vampires in a southern New Jersey swamp he hadn't been so lucky was apparently long forgotten. But Peter remembered all too vividly the sight of Neal and Sam stretched out on tables with their blood being siphoned into beakers.

"Helen's fine, thanks," said Jones blandly. "Ethan told me he and Amita hid out in a cave Neal discovered after they were chased by Long John Silver and his fellow pirates. Ethan said the pirates ran so fast, they were just a blur."

Peter hoped his laugh didn't sound too fake. "What an imagination!"

"Neal, I knew you were a great con artist, but I didn't give you enough credit," Jones said. "Ethan described to me how serious you were. You really had them convinced there were pirates. Hiding them in a cave, leading the bad guys away—you gave them the adventure of a lifetime."

Neal's smile became a little tenuous. He had been nearly frantic with worry about the kids' safety. Now Peter wasn't the only one trying to change the topic of conversation. But Neal didn't have any better luck.

"Who were those two guys, Dean and Sam?" Jones asked. "Up to now Ethan's only ambition was to be a pirate. Now he wants to be a hunter just like Dean. What does Dean hunt? Deer? Big game?"

"Something like that," Peter said. Surely the Winchesters hadn't mentioned to any of the kids that hunting monsters and spooks was their job. But then kids have sharp ears. Ethan may have overheard something. This could be bad. Jones had bulldog tenacity in researching a problem. He was the one who'd first alerted them to the Dutchman. If Jones only knew what really had happened to the Dutchman . . .

These were desperate times. Peter reached for the tried-and-true formula. Glancing at his watch, he shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, I'll have to leave you two to your research. I'm due to join a conference call." Neal's mocking eyes were burning holes in his back as he fled.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"You realize it's just a matter of time till they find out?"

Neal kept his tone low-key. He'd given Peter ample time for his fake conference call before knocking on the door of his office. But as his trusted consultant, it was incumbent upon Neal to alert him to the minefield ahead.

"I know," Peter said with a groan, motioning him to take a seat. "After the first incident, I was hopeful I could keep it quietly buried. Now we've had three cases in three months. Can another one be far off?"

"This isn't the first time Jones has brought it up. I didn't hear everything Dean said to the kids, but you know how snarky he can be. He may have teased them about werewolves or witches or made a reference to bloodsuckers. Ethan's at an impressionable age."

"Kids can remember the darndest things," Peter agreed gloomily. "I still recall every single detail of the cave my brother Joe transformed into Bigfoot's lair. I was about Ethan's age at the time."

"And we have a more serious issue to confront," Neal added. "The past couple of days I've seen Jones conferring with Diana about something. Whenever I approached them, Jones looked guilty and clammed up. Diana's too good a con artist to reveal anything but Jones isn't in her league. If Diana is suspicious, you know she'll pursue it."

"But how could she know anything?" Peter protested. He was clearly clinging to a shred of hope that was dissolving before his eyes. "She hasn't been involved in any of the cases."

"Travis was with us at camp and he made it clear he wouldn't hide the events from his partner. Richard returned from California earlier this week."

"If Diana suspects something weird happened at camp, she won't hesitate to grill Richard about it," Peter acknowledged. "This is more urgent than I realized."

"Exactly. You know Richard. His resistance to extreme interrogation tactics is nil." Neal hesitated. Should he bring up the Braque? How annoyed would Peter be?

Only a few days ago, he and Peter had been on shaky ground. Neal had finally confessed to having retrieved a painting by Georges Braque which he and the master art thief Klaus Mansfeld had stolen years ago. That painting was now key to the con to ensnare Vincent Adler and hopefully Klaus as well. Neal had hidden his knowledge about the work for months. When he admitted to Peter what he'd done, Peter had been hurt and angry even though he knew Neal had been motivated by a desire to protect him. The experience had been an excruciating ordeal for both of them.

"You're thinking about the Braque, aren't you?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded. "I made you a promise not to keep secrets like that from you ever again. As I recall we talked at length about the harm they can cause."

"And I remember distinctly saying that little non-work-related secrets are permitted."

"But vampires and witches are now work related, aren't they? Curtis Hagen, the Dutchman, has been possessed by the demon Crowley. Vampires were killed in New Jersey last month. So far the hunters have kept those deaths out of the police reports, but—"

"It's inevitable that before long exsanguinated victims will be discovered," Peter said, concluding Neal's sentence for him. "Vampires can only be killed by beheading. We can't count on hunters always being able to burn the corpses afterward."

Neal nodded. "Dean said vampire numbers used to be so small that the chance of discovery was tiny, but with the recent upsurge, news is bound to spread."

Peter raised the white flag of surrender. "It's better Diana and Jones hear it from me. Tomorrow morning at the briefing, I'll let the witch out of the bag."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"What did you find out?" Diana demanded of Jones impatiently.

This was her first chance to speak with him privately. Jones had been away from his desk when she left for lunch. When she returned, Neal had grabbed him to work on some identity fraud case. That in itself was suspicious. Was Neal deliberately trying to keep Jones occupied?

She'd finally been forced to text Jones to meet her in the file vault. It was one area Diana felt reasonably confident that they'd be safe from Neal. But it wasn't bulletproof certainty. Neal had been known in moments of extreme duress to overcome his antipathy toward the depository. Personally, she would have preferred the ladies' room, but she realized that would be a bridge too far for Jones. Someday she'd have to give him a lesson in covert maneuvers.

"Your suspicions were right," Jones muttered, casting a furtive look over his shoulder. "They're definitely hiding something. Peter's guilty look was the confirmation I needed."

"I knew it!"

"I have to hand it to you. At first I was sure you'd been spending too much time writing those Arkham Files stories. They were making you see monsters everywhere. When did you first suspect them?"

"It was after that long weekend Peter and Neal spent in Buttonwood, New Jersey. They claimed at the time that Mozzie was sick. Hah! He never gets sick. Consumes gallons of some herbal honey wine remedy. I suspect any bug which tries to attack him gets trapped in sticky goo like a fly in amber." Diana allowed herself one quick shudder at the nightmarish image now searing her skull of Mozzie encased in a solid block of amber along with multitudinous creepy crawlers. "When I confronted him afterward, Mozzie claimed he'd rescued Neal from vampires. A tale of deceit if ever there was one."

"I remember. You quizzed Neal at the time and he gave you some cock-and-bull story about Mozzie being delirious."

"But not as farfetched as Mozzie the vampire slayer. When I overheard Neal joshing Peter about vampires afterward, I knew there was more to it. Neal resisted all my efforts to learn what was really going on. You know how good he is at deflecting."

Jones sighed in commiseration. "The man's brain is a vault of secrets, but he has it so wired you might as well try to break into Fort Knox."

She nodded. "That left me no choice but to outflank him. The breakthrough came when you told me what Ethan said about the pirates. Travis was at camp. I figured he must have told Richard what really happened."

"When does Richard get back from L.A.?"

"He returned two days ago. Richard's been helping me with creature design for my stories." She paused to let the brilliance of her scheme sink in. Jones was a fiend for proper office procedure. Fortunately her writing counted as Bureau business since it was part of the strategy to take down a cybercriminal. And whatever happened in Buttonwood could very likely impinge on Neal and Peter's performance of their duties. Her snooping was completely justified.

"Richard's an investigator's dream," Jones said. "There's not a devious bone in his body. Considering what a good friend he is to Caffrey, you'd think a little guile would have worn off."

"Fortunately for us, he remains pure and uncorrupted." Diana permitted herself a wicked smile as she remembered the conversation. "I told Richard I wanted a creature for my stories who could run with preternatural speed in the darkness. We tossed around ideas from horror movies. I came up with werewolves. Guess what Richard suggested."

"Vampires?" Jones asked, looking uneasy.

"Exactly! When I asked him how he knew they were such speed demons, he stumbled around, muttering it was common lore. Then I brought up what Ethan told you."

"How did he react?"

"He was horrified that Ethan might know what they were. He said the adults at the camp worked very hard to keep the kids from knowing the truth."

Jones's eyes widened. "There really were vampires at the park?"

"The way Richard was acting, I'm convinced he believes it. The question I have is what were they really? Wolves, maybe? They couldn't be vampires. Richard's from New Orleans. He grew up on voodoo and the supernatural. He'd believe anything. But Travis? He's a science-fiction fan, but that has nothing to do with vampires. How did they trick him?"

Jones wasn't responding. His mouth had dropped open but no words were coming out.

"Snap out of it!" Diana ordered. "You don't believe in vampires, do you?"

Jones gave a shrug for an answer and looked distinctly uncomfortable. She held back her grin. She'd save that gem for later. Striding over to the cabinet, she retrieved the folder on the art forger Curtis Hagen. "Did you have time to research the file?"

"Searched through the contents this morning." Jones appeared relieved at the change of topic. "You know what a stickler Peter is for thorough documentation on each case."

She nodded. _Just like you_.

"This is one time that he didn't follow his own rules."

Diana snapped her fingers. "I knew there was something off about that case! Hagen disappeared from prison in May. That was on a Friday."

"Not just any Friday, but Friday the Thirteenth. It was the talk of the bullpen."

"I remember Peter took Neal along to investigate what happened. The next week at work, Peter was unusually vague about the case's status. When I asked him about it, he mumbled something about the inability to track Hagen down."

"It didn't feel right to me either. Peter had been pursuing Hagen for years. All of a sudden he loses interest? But we had a backlog of other cases to work on. I assumed he was simply waiting for a lead." Jones rapped the file with his knuckles. "Now I know better. Peter filed an expense form for a trip to Connecticut he and Neal made over the weekend. The purpose was to check out a lead on Hagen."

"What did you discover?" she asked eagerly.

"They found him."

"What? And they didn't tell us?"

Jones nodded grimly. "They found Hagen in an old house in Windsor, Connecticut. He was imprisoned in a cell in a basement."

"Was some crime group seeking revenge?"

"Doesn't sound like it. The homeowner, a woman named Alcy Young, returned while they were trying to free Hagen. And get this"—Jones stopped to check no one was approaching—"She set the house on fire."

"No way!"

Jones nodded emphatically. "This was on the evening of May 15. The house burned to the ground. Peter and Neal barely managed to escape. Peter wrote that Hagen and Young were likely killed in the inferno but no confirmation has been found. There's no DNA evidence. Nothing to prove what really happened."

"This doesn't make sense. Why didn't Peter tell us about it?"

Jones gave her a knowing look. "Maybe because there were two others present."

"Friends of the woman?"

"Don't think so. From the sound of it, they helped Peter and Neal escape. But Peter didn't mention their names. You know how he wants us to report every detail. Why would he omit something that important?"

This was weirder than Diana had dreamed possible. She ransacked her brain for a solution. "They may have been informants who'd worked for Hagen, and Peter agreed to protect their identities."

Jones shook his head slowly. "Then he would have included the explanation. But there's more. The day after Peter discovered Hagen had disappeared from prison, Neal had the forensics lab conduct an analysis of—and I quote—a hex bag. The bag came from the prison where Hagen was being held."

"What's a hex bag? Some sort of voodoo charm?"

"I don't know if it's used in voodoo, but normally it's made by witches to cast a spell on someone. It contains a mixture of herbs, talismans, and bones. If the witch wants to hex someone, she'll add a personal item like hair or a scrap of clothing."

Diana stared at Jones in astonishment. "How did you learn so much about witches?"

He scratched the back of his neck, looking flustered. "A buddy of mine in the Navy was a believer. He grew up in Charleston, South Carolina. Used to go to séances. Said he'd heard about a witch who used hex bags to cast spells."

"And you believed him?" she asked incredulously.

Jones cleared his throat and buried himself in reading the report on Hagen. "The hex bag contained a dried orchid, a Celtic coin, and a couple of frog bones."

"We have them!" Diana had to stifle the urge to chortle her glee. She scanned the report Jones gave her. "The hex bag, the vampires. You realize what this means, don't you?"

Jones didn't answer for a moment. "Proof that vampires and witches are real?"

"Oh, please." She stood back to eye him suspiciously. "Don't tell me you're part of the con, too."

"Of course, not! I wasn't sure how you felt about it. Didn't want to insult you."

"I'll allow there may be some who like to think they're witches. I've read about Wiccans and pagan revivals. But vampires? No one goes around claiming to be a vampire unless they're demented." She shook her head. "This has to be a con, and it has Neal's fingerprints all over it. No one else could design such an elaborate scheme. What I can't figure out is why? Was he simply bored?"

Jones nodded thoughtfully. "That could be it. You know how he and his cousin Henry like to play elaborate pranks. For April Fool's Day, Caffrey tried to trick Henry into believing June's house was haunted."

"I remember! And Henry attempted to convince Neal he was remodeling Neal's loft to make a second apartment for himself. Henry's superstitious. He believes in ghosts. Neal may want to prank him into believing in vampires and witches, too."

"Playing on someone's beliefs?" Jones shook his head with disapproval. "That's really a low blow. There are a lot of unexplained phenomena. You shouldn't mock a fellow if he thinks he's seen a ghost."

Diana ignored the low-hanging fruit Jones was gifting her to focus on the matter at hand. She'd take up his superstitions at a later time. "What I can't understand is why Neal and Peter involved Travis, Richard, and Ethan in the hoax."

"Could it be part of the con to capture Vincent Adler? Maybe Adler believes in vampires. We know he's searching for a U-boat filled with art plundered by the Nazis. Adler's obsession may have driven him over the edge." Lapsing into silence, Jones settled on the edge of a stool as he considered. "In fact, Mozzie and I were having a conversation about this just last week."

"He didn't try to convince you that Adler has a secret lab to create Hitler clones?"

Jones shrugged. "That was last month. Now he has a new theory. In the final days of the war, Hitler was turned into a vampire. He then bit several of his key generals to turn them. Mozzie was trying to convince me that we could make use of that to take down Adler."

"Well, that sucks. Neal, Peter, and Mozzie are engaged in some devilishly clever con—Henry must be in on it as well—and they haven't included us? This has to stop _now_."

Jones was in full agreement. They decided to take advantage of the next day's briefing to demand answers.

 **New Haven, Connecticut. The same day.**

Dean Winchester parked his '67 Impala in front of Maia Stavrou's cottage. He'd told his brother Sam that he and Chloe would swing by at one o'clock.

"No sign of Sam." Chloe smiled. "You thought he'd be waiting for you outside. I knew he and Maia would have better things to do."

Dean was happy to be proved wrong. Sam had just spent the past three days with Maia and he was in no hurry to leave. Was this the first time both brothers had been able to enjoy some R&R without worrying about the other one?

Maia had closed on the white wood-framed cottage last month. It wasn't far from the Yale campus and backed onto East Rock Park. The woods reminded Dean of Jenny Jump State Forest where Sam had first met Maia, a grad student at Yale. That Maia lived in the same town where Chloe was currently hanging out was proof that the Winchester brothers didn't always wind up with the short end of the straw.

He and Sam had been working in the Northeast since reports of a new generation of pure-blood vampires surfaced in June. Vamp activity had been minimal but there'd been no shortage of demons, witches, and werewolves. Vengeful spirits were particularly abundant.

It seemed like every town in New England had a booming population of spooks. Sifting through the reports for the malicious ones was a tedious chore. The local chambers of commerce had quickly discovered that tourists had an apparently insatiable desire for haunted inns and ghost stories. Mom and pop shops were already primed with local lore. Instead of wanting to hide supernatural events, they boasted about them. Crazy stuff and ninety-nine point nine percent of the tales absolutely worthless—making a hunter's job that much harder.

It was the point one percent—the spirits which would skin a tourist alive—that he and Sam hunted. And there were too many of them.

When their last job took them to Naugatuck, just up the road from New Haven, Dean declared a timeout afterward. Demons could be put on the back burner for a few days without the world coming to an end.

Chloe was staying at a B&B run by Wisteria Brigham. The effusively flowery innkeeper had a soft spot for Chloe since she'd joined Wisteria's Wicca coven. She let Dean stay in Chloe's room for no extra charge.

No need for Sam to rent a room. After mourning his deceased girlfriend for over a year and refusing to date, he'd made a move on Maia in record time. Not that it wasn't understandable. Long blond hair, classic beauty, Maia was a gentle, shy bookworm. She was perfect for him.

Dean and Chloe got out of the car and walked up the brick path to the front door. When he rang the doorbell, there was no answer.

Chloe peered through the glass panel in the door. "I don't see them inside. Maia mentioned they planned to take a walk in the woods. Let's wait on the back patio."

Although she'd only lived there a month, Maia's backyard was already filled with flowers. The chick had quite a knack for plants. It was something she had in common with Chloe.

Dean sprawled on a lounger while Chloe checked out the posies. "I'm going to miss New Haven," she said.

"When will you leave for New York?"

"On Monday. My new job starts on Wednesday and I want to have a couple of days to settle in. Wisteria talked with her sister Peony yesterday. Her B&B sounds ideal for my needs. It's on the Upper West Side and not far from where I'll be working. Peony's extended me a bargain rate."

"The Wicca friends and family discount?" Peony was also a member of a coven. They called themselves the Silver Cauldron.

Chloe plopped into a wicker chair opposite Dean. "I'll take it gladly. Wisteria told her that I'm studying potions and Peony has offered to share her knowledge with me." Chloe paused and pursed her lips. "Don't frown. She could be an invaluable resource for my upcoming novel. Wisteria told me that Peony's a psychic. Supposedly she's able to communicate with spirits."

Chloe said not to frown. She didn't mention anything about growls. Dean preferred to think as little as possible about Wiccans. He and Sam had encountered far too many black witches for him to be happy about Chloe associating with any coven, no matter how harmless sounding. But his efforts to dissuade her had gone nowhere. Chloe argued she was simply conducting research for her novel. How could such a sweet package with long auburn hair and the face of a pixie be as bullheaded as Sam?

Chloe didn't earn enough from sales of her urban fantasies to pay the bills so she worked as a technical writer. Usually she did contract jobs for software outfits, but even Dean had heard of the name of her new employer, Wooster House.

"Wooster's one of the top five technical publishers in the country," Chloe said proudly. "Their headquarters are close to Columbia University. I have an initial contract for three months."

"What will you work on?"

"A new series of how-to guides they plan to publish next year."

"Like the Idiot Guides?"

Chloe flushed unexpectedly. "Something like that. I'll be assigned to the Excel team."

"What's the name of the series?" Dean asked, grown curious by her reaction. "Sam may have heard about it."

"I doubt they've started promoting it," she said, turning even redder. "No need to mention it to Sam."

What was Chloe hiding? Anything concerning Excel couldn't be that exciting. Now if she was writing a guide on making love, Dean would be much more intrigued.

Chloe stood up and gave a wave. "There they are!"

Dean turned around to see Sam and Maia walking up the trail, accompanied by her puppy Tatyana. Sam looked relaxed and happy. Dean felt a brief pang at yanking him back to the real world. If Bobby hadn't called him about a suspicious murder in Cape May, Dean would be tempted to stay on another day. But it was time to return to the family business.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Sam stooped to pick up a short oak branch then tossed it into the woods. Tatyana bounded after it. He and Maia laughed at the puppy's clumsiness as she clambered over fallen branches. Someday the Russian wolfhound would be able to sprint gracefully, but that day hadn't come. Tatyana was a sweetheart. He'd hate to say goodbye to her and even more so to her mistress.

For their last walk, Maia had suggested the trail around the lake. Dean would arrive any minute, but Sam wanted to linger as long as possible. For the past three days, he'd been able to escape the life of demon hunting.

Maia's sister Electra owned a bookstore named Elysian's, and Sam felt like he'd been in Elysian Fields. He'd never read much about the ancient Greeks, but Maia was studying the classics. She'd told him the Greeks described Elysium as the Isles of the Blessed, and Sam had been blessed in abundance. He'd never known sex this good. It was a pleasure he would have found unimaginable only a month ago.

Maia . . . he wanted to write poetry about her. How crazy was that? Dean's eyes would roll out of his head and onto the floor.

Maia had shown Sam around the Yale campus. It reminded him of his life at Stanford, a world he thought he'd left behind. Now she was bringing it back to him. He'd dreamed last night of going for a law degree at Yale, writing poetry with Maia, making love to Maia . . .

Tatyana trotted back, looking pleased with herself. Sam leaned down to take the stick from her. "Good girl," he murmured, scratching her behind her ears. Tatyana gazed up at him with adoring eyes.

"She'll miss you," Maia said softly, "and she won't be the only one. Are you sure you have to go?"

"Yeah, we're heading to New Jersey. I hope it won't be long before we can return." Sam had been vague about what he and Dean did. Maia was left with the impression that they worked as freelance consultants for the FBI. Since she knew nothing about the FBI, the deception was easy to maintain.

"It may be for the best. I'll need to work at the bookstore this weekend. Back to the real world for me as well."

Sam put an arm around her and drew her close. "I won't forget our time together."

"Nor I."

They kissed, and Sam for a few moments was back in Elysium. When they separated, she reached into her bag. "I bought you a present at the bookstore. I hope you enjoy it. Langston Hughes is one of my favorite poets."

Sam looked at the small volume. _The Dream Keeper and other poems_. He could relate. He wanted to hold onto this dream as long as he could.

As they approached Maia's cottage, he saw Dean and Chloe waiting for them on the patio. Sam secreted the book in his denim jacket. No reason to give Dean another reason to tease him.

 **White Collar Conference Room. Friday morning.**

"It's all true?" Diana's mouth dropped open. "This isn't a con?"

Neal was clearly amused by the team's reaction to Peter's account of their encounters with witches and vampires. Peter had been prepared for disbelief, scorn—even ridicule—but not that Diana and Jones had already figured it out. They'd simply arrived at the wrong conclusion.

Neal was no doubt inordinately pleased that they attributed it to a brilliantly devised con. Travis appeared relieved that he no longer had to keep it a secret.

But now came the hard part. They had to convince Diana and Jones it was true.

At the Friday morning briefing, it was abundantly clear that Diana and Jones were itching to bring up the topic. Thanks to Neal's warning, Peter was ten steps ahead of them. He'd started off the meeting with a frank and serious review of the vampire and witch sightings. Explaining that they believed a Greek goddess named Astrena sucked the life force out of her chosen victims was a conversation Peter had never planned to have. The transformation of the art forger Hagen into the demon Crowley was the easiest one for Peter to explain. He'd witnessed it.

"I talked with Hagen when he was imprisoned in the witch's house," Neal added. "You may remember that Hagen had become fascinated with the artist Goya, particularly the witch series of paintings he'd made. Hagen admitted that he found himself drawn to the paintings in a way he couldn't explain. Also to Titian."

"You think Goya and Titian were among this goddess"—Diana paused to look at her notes—"Astrena's victims?"

"Very likely," Peter agreed. "The list of artists who suffered from mental or physical disorders and had unexplained deaths is a long one. If you believe in Astrena, it makes you wonder how many of them were her victims."

"How about these so-called sisters of Astrena?" she asked. "Are they equally powerful?"

"We don't know," Neal said. "The lore indicates they have similar abilities, but it's unclear if they're demons, demi-goddesses, or something else."

Peter stared at Neal, impressed at how authoritative he sounded. Had his art crimes consultant turned into another Sam Winchester? He looked equally serious. Sam and Neal had become friends. Perhaps this was Sam's influence at work. Did that mean Dean was rubbing off on Peter? Their music tastes were similar. Peter liked his car. They both enjoyed burgers and beer. Peter quickly smothered those thoughts. He was _not_ turning into a hunter.

"Have you told Hughes?" Jones asked.

Peter nodded. "I brought him up to date earlier this morning. We're in mutual agreement that we are _not_ opening up a branch of White Collar to deal with supernatural incidents. Only if a crime falls within our jurisdiction will we become involved." No need to go into Hughes's disbelief and sarcasm. Peter's own hesitancy in explaining the incidents was probably the only reason Hughes hadn't ordered a psychiatric evaluation. He supported Peter's decision not to write up case reports on the incidents.

"If the legends are true and Astrena feeds off the creative energy of artists," Diana said, "doesn't that make Neal a potential target? He was in the vicinity when that ritual was held to create a new generation of pure-blood vampires." She tilted her head in Neal's direction. "She may have sniffed you out."

Neal shook his head adamantly. "I'm not famous. Hardly worthy of a goddess. She'd cast me on the reject pile."

"I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the possibility," Travis countered. "I've been researching recent reports of artist deaths. That artist you investigated in Connecticut—Scott Pembroke—certainly fits the pattern. He wasn't famous, but he had the weird dreams, the unknown illness."

Peter shared Travis's concern, but Neal remained a skeptic. Ever since Neal and Sam had been discovered with blood being drained out of them, Peter had worried that something else was going on. Neal insisted there was no need to be concerned.

"The number of practicing witches is low," Peter pointed out, "and I don't know of any reports connecting them with white-collar crimes. Same thing for vampires. Dean and Sam Winchester introduced us to a shadow world of supernatural monsters we had no idea existed, but there's no reason to believe we'll confront them again. As for Hagen, I stand by the report I filed. Hagen was being held prisoner in a house that caught fire. He vanished. For all we know, he actually was consumed by flames. There have been no reports of activity by the Dutchman. If he is Crowley now, I suspect he's no longer interested in art forging."

"Could we call Astrena and her pure-blood vampires a type of organized crime?" Diana suggested then broke into a grin. "What would Ruiz say if I told him about it?"

"He'd ask what you'd been sniffing," Neal predicted. "Better not go there. Your credibility could be ruined."

"But here's something else Diana can feed him," Peter said, turning to Neal. "We can use your newfound interest in identity fraud to our advantage. As part of the con, we want to sell your dissatisfaction with the Bureau. Diana's been regaling him with tales of how unhappy you are with the assignments. She's also complained that I'm too lenient with you, and that the rest of the team resents it. Identity fraud is a top priority for our Division. Hughes has assigned you to assist with identity fraud effective immediately, or at least that's the story we'll spread. Diana can make a strong case about how resentful you are of the number crunching."

"You could also play it a different way," Neal remarked. "You could easily say that I'm an expert on the subject."

Diana snorted. "With all the aliases you have in your pocket?"

Neal nodded. "Exactly. I could take advantage of the assignment. By learning how the Bureau investigates identity frauds, I'll be better able to rig the system."

Jones raised an eyebrow. "Know your enemy and yourself and you can win a hundred battles?"

Jones had been working with Mozzie on the U-boat scam. Now he was quoting Sun Tzu, one of Mozzie's role models. How much of Mozzie was rubbing off on Peter's second-in-command and should he be worried about it? Would a belief in Hitler clones be next? At least that was one demon Peter hadn't been forced to confront . . . yet.

* * *

 _Notes: Thanks for reading! Next week, Angela's boyfriend Michael calls Neal with a worrying report about Angela, and Electra comes to New York City. I plan to post Dark Rabbit's 9 chapters weekly on Wednesday._

 _It's late July as the story starts, but I posted this on February 14. Happy Valentine's Day from Penna and me to all our readers! If you'd like to celebrate the occasion with Caffrey Conversation, the first three chapters of The Mirror can be read as a standalone of Valentine's Day 2005._

 _Penna's chocolate factory has been busy crafting seven delectable stories for the Chocolate Box Exchange on AO3. They'll be made public in about a week. Our blog will soon have details, and I'll also have news about them in next week's notes._

 _In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The Crossed Lines page on our blog has more background information about the stories._

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_  
 _Pins are updated with each new chapter. This week's pins include the cast and locations._

 _Disclaimers: The worlds of_ _White Collar and Supernatural are not mine, alas._ _Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate._


	2. Crossed Signals

**Chapter 2: Crossed Signals**

 **White Collar Task Force. Friday, July 29, 2005.**

Peter had outed himself at the morning briefing in a very real sense. He'd laid their encounters with witches and vampires on the table for Diana and Jones to accept, mock, or reject as they saw fit. It was a sign of their caliber that once the initial shock wore off, they drilled down on the essential takeaways. Vampires and witches were real, they posed a growing threat to the public, and Neal was in a high-risk group.

At the meeting's conclusion, Peter called Neal into his office. "Thank you for giving me the push. No secrets for either one of us."

Neal nodded as he slid into a chair beside the desk. "You're looking at a reformed man."

That was classic rock music to Peter's ears. Neal had stressed he'd reformed after his confession about the Braque and Peter trusted he meant it. Equally important for the upcoming sting was that Neal's head was back in the game. Two weeks ago, the cybercriminal Rolf Mansfeld had attempted to brainwash Neal by using a virtual reality program. After a week of intensive therapy, Neal had learned how to control the false memories Rolf and his brother Klaus had implanted.

Neal had been visibly glowing when Jones and Diana accused him of conning them. All well and good, but now he'd be more eager than ever to set in motion the op they'd spent the past few weeks designing. The undercover assignment would be one of the toughest Neal had ever faced. He was physically ready, but mentally?

Neal had admitted he continued to have nightmares about the virtual ordeal. Peter suspected that only the Mansfelds' capture would bring Neal the closure he needed, and for that to occur, they'd have to move forward with the op. One more week of desk duty before pulling out the throttle was Peter's compromise solution.

"I'll finish the Braque forgery tomorrow." It was if Neal could read his mind. Offering it for sale on the black market would kick-start the Adler con. "Mozzie's willing to take it to France for us. He can leave on Monday."

"Do I want to know where in Paris he'll store it?"

Neal shook his head. "It will be safe. You have Mozzie's word on that."

"That's good enough for me." For once Peter had complete trust in Mozzie. He wanted Adler captured as much as the rest of them. "I'd like to see your forgery before he takes it away. How about Sunday afternoon?"

Neal nodded. "I'll finish aging it tomorrow morning. The forgery will be ready for your inspection Sunday. After that, the con can start whenever you're ready." A sneaky half-smile flitted across his face. That could only mean one thing. It didn't take long for the confirmation.

Neal reached over to Peter's desk for a pen and began twirling it between his fingers. "Diana and Jones thought we'd planned something paranormal for Adler. Maybe we should."

"Don't tell me it involves Hitler clones." Peter had worried about Mozzie's influence on Jones. Should he have been more concerned about Neal?

Neal took his comment as a joke. He held his right index finger under his nose and said something in German before he broke into a snicker. "Nothing that obvious. What I have in mind is much more reasonable. Henry and I are supposed to be out of control. It would be just like me to make a video of the U-boat discovery. And naturally I wouldn't want it to be a dry, factual account. I'd likely get inspiration from _The Blair Witch Project_ and decide to turn the U-boat into a ghost ship. No Hitler clones but perhaps the malevolent spirit of an SS officer."

"Will Henry go for it? Given his sensitivity to ghosts—"

"That's what will make it even better," Neal insisted, blowing away his caution. "I can make it part of his birthday gift."

Neal and Henry liked to plan over-the-top birthday parties for each other, but this would add a new meaning to the term. What would Henry's reaction be? Neal would have to wait to find out. Henry had already left on a two-week sailing trip. In a typically devious maneuver, he'd rolled a supposed vacation with his boyfriend Eric into an essential part of the con. It made Peter wonder how much of his plan he'd disclosed to Eric. The expression _need to know_ as practiced by Neal and Henry had gotten them both into a mess of trouble in the past. Both of them now claimed they'd reformed, but Peter was taking a wait-and-see approach before declaring victory.

Still, the video could be useful for the op and it would also give Neal something to focus on during the upcoming week of desk duty. Peter had acquired a healthy respect for how much trouble a bored Neal could get into. "Go ahead. Write up a detailed report on how you'd prepare it, including how it will be used in the con. After I've reviewed it, we can discuss it with Hughes. Have you heard anything more from Angela?"

"Not about identity fraud. Her boyfriend Michael is going down to Shepherdstown this weekend to visit her." Neal rested his elbows on the armrests and leaned forward. "Don't tell Diana. She'll think this is another part of the conspiracy, but Angela's having the kids perform a musical version of Dracula."

"She is? How old are the kids?"

"Seven to ten, but it's not as bad as it sounds. Instead of blood, they're using vegetable juice. Have you ever heard of _Bunnicula_?"

Peter laughed. "Only too well. I've read it many times to my brother's daughters. It was one of their favorite books."

"Same for Angela. For a girl who loved rabbits and Gothic horror tales, the story of a vampire bunny who lives off vegetables was irresistible to her. She's using it as a teaching tool, and has written a musical version for the kids to perform."

Angela was a talented singer and pianist. She was now using those skills for education as part of the doctorate program in ethnomusicology at Columbia. Peter was glad Neal was having a chance to develop closer ties to a cousin he hadn't known during most of his life.

"I hear El will be attending a play this weekend," Neal said. "Are you going along?"

"No, this is women only. She and Janet are meeting Electra Stavrou for lunch. Afterward they'll go to the matinee performance of _Dirty Rotten Scoundrels._ How did you hear about it?"

"Electra called me last night. She mentioned she'd be in town this weekend. She reminded me that she hoped to see some of my paintings next time she was in New York. She'll drop by my studio tomorrow after the play."

They'd made the acquaintance of Electra and her sister Maia last month when they stayed at Jenny Jump State Park during astro camp. The sisters had been in town for a Wicca festival. El and Mozzie's girlfriend Janet had become better acquainted with Electra over dinner one evening when the men had been busy with camp. Electra ran a bookstore in New Haven and was interested in the theater. Peter was happy to not be invited. He and Satchmo were looking forward to watching baseball instead. "Are you going out with her afterward?"

Neal gave a put-upon sigh. "Don't tell me you're worried that she'll make a move on me. Wasn't it bad enough that El felt that way?"

"Hey, I'm not concerned, but El will undoubtedly ask. It's illogical since she freely admits she likes Electra."

"And Satchmo was doing his share of growling too. Tell them both to relax. Electra did ask me out to dinner, but I already have plans."

 **Maia's Cottage, New Haven. Friday midday.**

Maia placed one more lavender dahlia in the glass vase then stood back to study the arrangement. "Too much?"

Electra tucked an ivory-colored rose under a cymbidium orchid. "No, you've done well. The flowers suit your cottage." In the month since she'd taken ownership of her new home, Maia had transformed it into a rustic retreat. The furniture was large, casual, and comfortable—clearly selected with a certain hunter named Sam in mind. Picture windows looked out on Maia's garden. It reminded Electra of the dacha Maia had designed for her clandestine meetings with the Russian poet Pushkin. She'd had a Russian wolfhound then as well.

Whether it was Alexander Pushkin or Sam Winchester, when Maia established a link to someone she committed herself totally to her protégé. Her current infatuation would pass like all the others. Pushkin's life had ended abruptly when he was killed in a duel. Given Sam's life as a hunter, he might not last long either. Or, if Maia became too besotted over him, Electra would have to do the deed herself. It wouldn't be the first time.

But Electra was in a tolerant mood. She could let her sister indulge in her fantasy a little while longer even if Maia no longer stored any blood in the house. At least Maia had warned her to bring along a flask if she wanted any. It wouldn't do for her precious Sam to find bottles of blood in the refrigerator.

Electra took a seat in an overstuffed armchair. "I assume your idyll with your beloved was satisfactory?"

Maia flopped on the couch and patted the cushion for Tatyana to join her. She was wearing a simple white peasant top and long, cotton gauze skirt. "Even better than I dared imagine. We spent the past three days reading poetry and making music with our bodies."

 _No need to rub it in._

"It makes me feel badly for you," Maia continued. "All this time, you've restrained yourself from visiting Neal."

Electra gazed at her suspiciously. Was Maia mocking her? She appeared to be genuinely sympathetic.

"But your fast will soon end." Maia curled up one bare leg underneath her and stroked Tatyana's head. "You leave for New York tomorrow morning. Have the arrangements gone as you wished?"

"Not completely." It was awkward to admit that she, Astrena, Queen of the Stars, had been rejected.

Maia sat up. "What happened?"

"I was able to arrange the afternoon with Elizabeth and Janet without a problem. We'll have lunch and take in a matinee. But Neal has a conflict. He agreed to show me his paintings, but he already has plans for the evening."

"How unfortunate!"

I'm sure he wanted to see me. I suppose it's my fault. I shouldn't have waited till the last minute, but I didn't want to appear overly anxious." Electra refreshed herself with a sip of blood. It had been centuries since she'd deigned to capture someone's interest without using her powers. Now she remembered why she'd stopped.

"Perhaps he simply needs a little encouragement."

Electra smiled at her. "I'm sure you're right. Neal's too much a gentleman to cancel a previously arranged engagement. Having to decline my invitation was undoubtedly distressing to him. A regrettable situation which can be easily remedied." She snapped her fingers. The air next to the cocktail table shimmered and swirled until Crowley coalesced, impeccably dressed as always in black with a carmine red brocade tie.

He executed a low bow. "Radiant Ones, you called?"

"Status report," Electra commanded.

"As the King of Hell or"—he paused to give an unappreciated smirk—"Cupid?"

"Electra, you didn't!" Maia didn't bother to conceal her amusement. "Have you ordered Crowley to be your go-between?"

Electra heaved an exasperated sigh. Maia would have her fun. "Don't mock me. I already admitted I was a trifle out of practice. What's the good of being the Queen of the Stars if I can't command my minions to act on my behalf?" She turned to Crowley. "Neal is seeing someone. Who is she?"

He raised an insolent eyebrow. "So it _is_ Cupid you want. I endeavor to please in whatever capacity you wish. I enlisted the help of a couple of younger demons who were eager to curry favor. Their task was a simple one. Students are a garrulous lot. When offered free drink, they're only too willing to gossip for hours. It appears that you have little competition. Neal split up with his girlfriend a couple of months ago and is not known to be dating anyone seriously. There is a woman, name of Bianka Kaldy, who has the art studio next to Neal's. She's blonde and attractive. They've gone out a few times. If he has a date, it's likely with her."

Electra opened her purse and withdrew a hex bag. She had no reason to mask it from Maia. They weren't in a competition. If Electra chose to stack the deck in her favor, Maia would simply admire her skill. Electra fingered the silken pouch for a moment as she reviewed its contents. The bee orchid, salamander bone, and thistle. Yes, it was acceptable. "You are to add two strands of the child's hair to the pouch and place it under her bed."

He took the bag and placed it inside his jacket. "What plague will she come down with?"

Electra shrugged. "I sympathize with her. It's understandable why she's attracted to Neal. The spell will be of short duration. After Saturday night, Neal won't be interested in her in any case." She deepened her voice to the tone she used for her strictest orders. "Just make sure that it's in place by tonight."

He bowed once more. "It shall be as you command."

She smiled as he vanished. Crowley serving as Cupid was a useful maneuver to keep him in his place. It wouldn't do for the King of Hell to acquire an inflated opinion of himself. He was her lapdog, serving at her pleasure. It was a privilege she could revoke at any time and he appeared well aware of it.

 **Burke townhouse**. **Saturday afternoon.**

The Mets' game wasn't over when El returned from her girls' afternoon on the town, but Peter turned off the TV anyway. Satchmo beat him to the door to welcome her back.

She'd worn a slim royal blue dress for her outing, making Peter feel like a slob in his jeans and t-shirt. He'd spent a good part of the afternoon installing a new showerhead in their bathroom. He'd earned the popcorn and beer she saw on the cocktail table.

Persuading El to tell him about her day with Janet and Electra was not difficult. He offered to make her a cup of tea in exchange for the details. She was practically bouncing with excitement as she followed him into the kitchen.

"Electra took us to brunch at the Glass House Tavern in Times Square. Jessica Lange was sitting only two tables away. We feasted on salmon filet and avocado toast, had Bloody Marys—they were the best I'd ever had. Electra had the same thing, and she claims to be an expert on them. We all splurged on desserts. I had yogurt panna cotta, but Janet's white chocolate bread pudding looked wonderful—"

"—and my doggy bag is where?" Peter handed her the cup of tea and made a show of peering around her back.

"I knew I'd forgotten something! I promise to make it up to you."

He kissed her. "You know I'm teasing you. Come and sit down on the couch." They returned to the living room. Peter stacked the newspaper sections, keeping the crossword puzzle on top, so she'd have room for her tea on the cocktail table.

El had loved the production. Afterward, Janet used her pull so they could go backstage. They'd met several of the actors and, even more importantly from Janet's point of view, seen the costumes up close. But El's biggest news was not about the play.

"During lunch Electra asked me about my community theater group. When I told her about the financial problems we're facing, she encouraged me to apply to a nonprofit which supports the arts. Her aunt had started a foundation—I gather her family made a fortune in the shipping industry—and Electra now serves on its board. She believes our group has an excellent chance of being awarded a grant." El paused to blow on the tea before taking a sip. "This could be the answer to our prayers. With her foundation as a backer, we'd be able to proceed with a full season. She promised to send me an application."

Peter stood up to retrieve his laptop. "What's the name of the group?" He returned to the couch and powered it on.

"Lena Stavrou. I believe their headquarters is in Athens."

"Found it." Peter scanned the report, clicking on the links for the financial disclosures.

El set down her tea to view the page over his shoulder. "Do they pass muster?"

He nodded. "No warning flags. This ratings organization gives them high marks."

"Electra said she's long wanted the foundation to be more involved with community theater. She appeared to be as excited as I was. We discussed our upcoming schedule. You know how we've been struggling to find a good play for Halloween. Others have wanted to do a vampire play, but after our experience last month I'd rather stay away from anything having to do with the undead. Electra suggested _Bell, Book and Candle_."

"Wasn't a movie made of that?"

"That's right. It featured Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak. Electra thinks I'd be perfect as the witch, the role Kim Novak played. Janet was already suggesting ideas for costumes. The original version takes place around Christmas but Electra suggested we change the season to Halloween. It's so much more appropriate."

Peter was delighted to see El so enthusiastic. He knew how worried she'd been about their players having to dissolve because of lack of funding. "It's no wonder Electra likes that play. Isn't it about a witch who owns a bookstore?"

She laughed. "We teased her about that. She should be the one playing the character, not me. Janet in particular was merciless, going on about her books on the occult and letting the local Wiccan coven meet at her bookstore."

"How did Electra take it?"

"She loved it. She said she wished she could act so she could play the part. She reminded us that she even has a Siamese cat. Do you remember Kim Novak's cat Pyewacket? If I get the role, I may have to borrow her cat." El turned to Satchmo. "How would you like a lilac-point Siamese as a roommate?"

Satchmo's whine echoed Peter's moan. "Couldn't you use Satchmo instead? He'd make a great witch's familiar."

El raised a brow. "So now you're an expert on familiars? I'm impressed. Have you been brushing up on witches as well as vampires?"

"I don't need to. Since Jones and Diana found out about our experiences, they've been inundating me with their research. I thought they'd treat it as one big joke, but Jones in particular is very serious about it."

"How about Hughes?"

"When he said he wanted to be in the muck with the team, I don't think he meant a vampires' nest. But he was more open-minded than I would have believed. And I must admit, it's a good feeling being able to talk about what happened."

She smiled. "Bridge construction can be very rewarding."

"Trust me, Neal's reminded me of that, too." Last weekend Neal had compared himself to the destructive potential of a river. Peter had countered with the argument that communicating with others provided bridges of understanding which would nullify any harmful effects. El had helped both of them on building their bridge. Was it time for him to return the favor? "Your opinion of Electra has appeared to improve."

She flushed. "I always said Electra was delightful. I was simply concerned she was overly interested in Neal. Looking back, I don't know why I reacted the way I did."

"So you didn't detect any cougar growls?"

She smiled sheepishly. "Not even a purr. She was taking a taxi to visit him in his studio, but it's his art she's interested in. A friend of her owns an art gallery in SoHo which periodically exhibits works by new artists. Neal freely admits that the painting he'd made in camp couldn't ever be exhibited. It's too derivative of Monet. She's curious to see what his own style is like. It would be a wonderful opportunity for him if she recommends him to the gallery."

 **Neal's Terrace. July 31, 2005. Sunday morning.**

 _What a night._

Neal had earned the right to be lazy. He had the arts section of _The New York Times_ to read and a cup of freshly brewed coffee beside him. On a Sunday morning, the traffic noise coming from Riverside Drive was minimal. Peter wouldn't be over for hours.

He hoped Bianka felt better. She sounded miserable when she called the previous morning. There are few ailments worse than stomach flu. Hers had hit so suddenly, he wondered if it hadn't been food poisoning instead. She was lucky it struck her before they were at the concert.

Electra had appeared at his studio as arranged at five o'clock. He remembered from camp how elegant she was. For their meeting, he'd selected a dove-gray suit. The silver silk tie he'd picked up in London in June. Not typical artist attire, but from the glint in her eyes, she approved of the choice. There was something about that woman. Perhaps the low sultry voice with a hint of an accent which whispered of exotic lands. Neal prided himself on being able to recognize accents, but hers escaped him. It was but one of many mysteries about her, and that intrigued him.

She professed to never having studied art, and yet she demonstrated a deeper knowledge of artist biographies than anyone he'd known. His professors might be more skilled in their analytical ability, but with Electra it was as if she'd been friends with them.

Neal showed her the paintings from his first exhibition and some of his sketches for his upcoming master's exhibition. He had grown accustomed to being criticized for his lack of cohesive style, but Electra didn't view it that way. She was effusive in her praise of his creativity.

Neal had chosen the subject of rivers for the upcoming exhibition, and one of the rivers that he picked was the Seine. His sketch led them to compare his ideas with Monet's series of paintings on the Seine. Neal hadn't felt there was any similarity between his works and those of the French master, but Electra astonished him with her insights.

When she asked if he was still tied up that evening, he was delighted to tell her his schedule was clear.

Electra took him to her hotel, the Hotel Plaza Athénée. The luxury European-style hotel on the Upper East Side suited her. She mentioned that she visited New York often and had a suite set aside for her use. The cost would have been unthinkable for mere mortals like him, but not for someone like Electra who helped manage her family's foundation.

From the allusions she made to her travels and places she stayed, her wealth was in no doubt. Electra's position went far beyond what an ordinary bookstore owner's would be. And that made her even more a mystery.

They'd dined on European seabass with celery root mousseline and pancetta—Neal had taken mental notes for El. Electra selected the wine—a Montrachet Grand Cru which cost more than a month's salary. Of course he would never wish for anyone to have the flu, but if Bianka had to be sick, she picked a good night.

Over dinner, they'd continued discussing art. Neal mentioned that he was considering the addition of more bridges into his rivers series and that led to a discussion of Monet's Waterloo bridge paintings. The meal passed far too quickly and when she invited him upstairs to her suite, he was torn. He'd never seen the suites at the Athénée. Didn't he need to research them for a potential future assignment? The team at work relied on his expertise.

The buzzing of his cellphone roused him from his musings. He reached into his pocket and was surprised to see Michael's name on the display. Of all the people who might call on a Sunday morning, Michael was near the bottom of the list, particularly when he was visiting Angela.

" _Angela's still asleep,"_ Michael said. _"I snuck out to call you_." Neal heard the sound of cars in the background and faint snippets of conversation.

"It's ten o'clock, and Angela's not awake? You must have had a good time last night."

Michael exhaled and didn't say anything for a moment.

"Something wrong?" Neal sat up straighter. This wasn't Michael's normal carefree tone. "Did something happen to Angela?"

"That's what I'm afraid of. I went on a run, hoping to clear my mind. I've been trying to make sense of what happened, and it keeps sounding worse. Man, I'm losing it."

Michael wasn't the type to stress easily. He was a year ahead of Neal in the doctorate program of art history and Neal's best source for advice on how to maintain his sanity while pursuing a PhD. Like Neal, Michael had another job. He paid the bills by working at Manhattan Geeks. Of Neal's friends at Columbia, he was the least obsessed of the lot. Neal couldn't remember him sounded so agitated, _ever_.

"Have you talked with her recently?" Michael asked.

"She called a few days ago to discuss some identity fraud problems her friends were having."

"Did she sound normal?"

Neal thought back. "Nothing rang a warning bell. She was excited to see you. We chatted about the _Bunnicula_ play she's producing."

"That sounds like when I talked with her Thursday night. I drove down Friday after work. It took me longer than I'd planned to get to Shepherdstown, and when I arrived, she'd already fallen asleep. I'd attributed it to the late hour."

"Attributed _what_ to the late hour," Neal demanded, growing increasingly concerned.

All he heard were traffic noises for a moment or two. "I wish I knew," Michael admitted finally. "At first I was worried she'd cooled on me. I thought about what happened to you and Fiona. Was I suffering the same fate?"

"Not possible," Neal said firmly. "She's crazy about you. Probably draws hearts over all her photos of you."

"She's certainly not acting that way. I've become more boring than week-old bread."

"You must be exaggerating."

"You tell me. We haven't seen each other in over a month. I come down to visit her, stay with her in her apartment, and she's not interested in . . . ?" Michael's words trailed off.

Neal assumed they were intimate—they'd been a couple for over half a year—but that was one subject he had no intention of exploring.

And Michael didn't need to draw the picture. His heartfelt sigh was testimony enough. "Our phone calls were a lot steamier than the way she was yesterday."

Angela had taken him to the _Bunnicula_ rehearsal yesterday afternoon. Afterward, she'd wandered off while he was chatting with the kids. She didn't return for over two hours. Strange yes, but there could have been a good reason. Neal wasn't swayed.

"The worst was last night. She took me to a concert by a dulcimer player at the university. She waxed rhapsodic about what a wonderful player he was. I got the distinct impression she wasn't just talking about his musicianship. After the performance we went up to speak with him and I swear her eyes appeared to glaze over when she looked at the dude. That's when it struck me."

"What?"

"I wondered if she could be under the influence. She seems so irrational and not herself. I don't think if she'd fallen for someone else, she'd be acting this way. Do you know if she's ever taken drugs?"

"Angela? No way." Drug use wasn't uncommon at rock performances, but he couldn't believe Angela was a user. She was as opposed to drugs as Neal. For Michael to ask the question meant that something was seriously wrong with her.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal looked at Peter pleadingly. "Surely you can understand why I need to go to Shepherdstown. Two days should be enough to check out the situation. I have the vacation time."

Peter had arrived at the loft midday, expecting to view the completed Braque forgery. Instead, he found Neal pacing the floor about Angela.

Peter attempted to be the voice of reason, the wise councilor. "I admit that doesn't sound like her, but her mother lives in D.C. That's only about an hour away from Shepherdstown. Shouldn't she be contacted?"

Neal's eyes widened in horror. "You want me to tell her about possible drug use? I can't!"

"It wasn't _my_ fault," a familiar voice squeaked from behind Peter's back. He spun around to see Mozzie standing at the doorway, a guilty look on his face.

"Why do you think we're talking about you?" Peter asked with a sigh.

"You mentioned drugs," he muttered. "Never mind." Mozzie was carrying a large canvas tote. He placed it on the kitchen counter then took a seat at the dinette table. "What kind of drug and what was the effect?" He gazed at Neal eagerly.

Now it was Neal's turn to sigh, but Mozzie's arrival had a positive effect. He was forcing Neal to slow down.

Neal plunked down in a chair next to Mozzie. "It's Angela—"

"Wait!" Mozzie interrupted. "We can't have a story without a liquid libation. I brought refreshments."

"What's up with him?" Peter muttered, also taking a seat.

"He and Billy have been experimenting with new honey wine blends for fall," Neal said gloomily. "He mentioned he might stop by to have us taste them. I hope it's better than what he had me try on Friday. My stomach's still a little queasy."

He sounded like he was making a joke, but Neal did look a little off color. Peter had at first attributed it to his concern over Angela but perhaps that was the cause instead. Mozzie had launched a Hawaiian organic honey business with Billy Feng, the owner of the Aloha Emporium nine months ago. For the line of honey wines, he was constantly experimenting with new blends and roping Neal in to be the taster. Peter didn't have to worry about being drafted into service. No one had ever praised him for having a refined palate.

Peter realized he was being a helicopter dad, but under the circumstances it was understandable. Neal hadn't been cleared for field work, and now he wanted to go down to Shepherdstown. Not that it was for a case, but Peter was still uneasy.

Angela was probably just going through a phase. She and Michael hadn't seen each other for a while. Her boyfriend could have blown a disagreement out of proportion. Neal was right not to involve parents at this point. Angela could be experiencing a normal case of the jitters about their relationship. She might feel the need for a cooling off period. It was unfortunate Henry had already left or he could have gone in Neal's place.

Mozzie placed three glasses filled with an amber-colored liquid on the table.

Neal eyed his glass warily. "Is this better than what you gave me on Friday?"

"Of course! That was the first effort for a new line. This is a completely different product. Billy and I've been working on it for quite a while and feel it's ready to make its debut." He raised his glass expansively to Peter. "You'll like this. Skol!"

Peter's mood lifted at Mozzie's words. "Is this what I think it is? Do you have a drinking horn?"

"Excellent idea! We could market a custom line of drinking horns to go with it."

Peter took a sip, savoring the taste on his tongue. A fruity tartness balanced the sweetness of the honey. Mozzie was looking at him expectantly. Smacking his lips, Peter raised his glass to him. "You've got a winner." He turned to Neal. "I know you're not fond of beer, but you should give it a try. Don't think of it as beer."

"Because it's not," Mozzie added. "The finest honey mead I've ever tasted and I'm just getting started. Do you know that some meads sell at $100 a bottle? By the time university classes begin, Billy and I will be ready to launch our line of craft meads."

Neal gingerly took a sip and smiled his approval.

"Now tell me about the trouble our Angela's gotten into," Mozzie ordered, sounding positively avuncular. Angela worked part time at the emporium during the school year, helping out with the books and their honey-based cosmetics line. When Mozzie heard Neal's report, he concurred with the need to go down to check it out.

"I'd go with you," he said, "but my flight to Paris is already booked. You must keep me informed. It's likely just a lovers' spat, but these matters of the heart must be taken seriously. Michael's a good lad, but a sensitive one. I worked with him on the website for our honey products. He was eager to do everything he could to please Angela. I can see my coaching services will be required once more."

Neal rolled his eyes expressively to Peter. Neal had been driven to distraction by Mozzie's overly solicitous romantic advice. It now appeared that Angela and Michael were to be the beneficiaries. They didn't realize how lucky they were that he wouldn't be able to visit them in person.

Peter mulled over Neal's request while enjoying what he had to admit was a truly remarkable brew. By the time he'd finished a second glass he'd arrived at a decision.

"Yes, you can go to Shepherdstown. You can take as long as is needed, but under one condition, and that is I'm going with you."

Neal's look of appreciation switched to puzzlement. "That's really not necessary."

"Yes, it is, and here's why. Those identity fraud cases Angela reported provide the perfect cover. We've been trying to feed the rumor mill that you've been taking advantage of me. This will make a great example. You conned me into the need to investigate the cases so you could visit her without taking vacation. You've been back at work for only a week after a totally unnecessary week of medical leave—"

"—which Diana has been complaining about vociferously to Ruiz," Neal added, a smile breaking out.

"Exactly," Peter agreed, plastering an equally complacent look, "and now you've hoodwinked me yet again.

"Suit, I admire your lack of scruples," Mozzie said, raising his glass to him.

"Thank you, I think. Neal, you persuaded me to consult on the cases at Quantico, even though I've placed Jones in charge of the work. You then convinced your pushover of a boss to take you along so you can have a day or two to visit your cousin while not doing a lick of work."

"Will Hughes agree to it?" Neal asked. He still had a hard time believing that Hughes had so wholeheartedly endorsed the con.

"I don't expect any problem. It's really not much of a con. Identity fraud is a serious concern. Jones can send me the necessary documentation on the D.C. cases he's been looking into. Henry's grandfather Graham and Julia live in Baltimore. This will give me a good opportunity to discuss with Graham the part he'll play in the U-boat con." Peter outlined the plan in his head for a moment. "We've been spreading the rumor that agents have accused me of favoritism. Diana's told Ruiz that Hughes is reviewing your work and has been giving you additional assignments. When I walked into the bullpen Thursday, I was surprised to see you working with Jones. Others may have noticed it as well."

"And naturally I would take that lemon of an assignment and turn it into a delicious lemon soufflé," said Neal.

Peter nodded. "You could argue that since Hughes delegated you to work on ID fraud, you're simply performing your assignment."

Crisis resolved, they turned their attention to the Braque. Neal placed the original painting next to his forgery and walked him through how he'd created what to Peter's mind was a flawless copy.

Neal appeared to enjoy the grilling Peter gave him about how he'd created it. Adler believed this painting was key to finding a U-boat of plundered art. He'd put out feelers to fences in Paris based on a rumor that the painting was located there. Adler was offering much more than the typical black market price. Mozzie hoped to be able to sell the painting through a fence for close to Adler's original offer of fifteen million euros.

Part of the money would be used to fund the con, and then, of course, there would be Mozzie's fee. That was still a matter of negotiation which Peter might insist would be conducted over several more rounds of honey mead. Mozzie may have just discovered the ideal negotiating tool.

* * *

 _Notes: Neal hasn't given a full account of what happened with Electra. That will come next week when he and Peter travel to Shepherdstown. Peter's been stressing about Neal, but the tables will be turned in Chapter 3: Nothing Else Matters. As for Angela, Neal will feel the need to call on the Winchesters for advice. Angela's the subject of my blog post this week. She's been campaigning to be in a Crossed Lines story for quite a while, and it's finally happened. The post is called "Angela Caffrey."_

 _ _Penna can now reveal the titles of the seven stories she wrote for the Chocolate Box exchange. Each one is a delectable confection of wit and humor! The list is in her profile. She's also blogged about them, giving a summary and link for each one. For White Collar fans, there's a story of Neal and Jones pretending to be a couple at a bar. Another story is a crossover between Leverage and White Collar. Other fandoms include The Good Place, Discworld, Harry Potter, Mary Poppins, and Star Trek: Voyager. There's also an original work where a Pride and Prejudice fanfic seduces a reader into writing. Who can pick a favorite? I loved them all!_ The blog post is called: "Chocolate Box 2018."_

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_ _  
_ _New pins include the Monet paintings Neal and Electra discussed, Hotel Plaza Athénée, and the Glass House Tavern._


	3. Nothing Else Matters

**Chapter 3: Nothing Else Matters**

 **Neal's loft. Sunday, July 31, 2005.**

 _So far so good._

Neal breathed easier once he'd secured Peter's approval to go to Shepherdstown. It was an unexpected gift that Peter offered to roll the time into the con they were working on. He'd been prepared to count the days as vacation.

He was also grateful that Peter offered to work in D.C., leaving Angela to Neal. Based on Michael's report, she likely wouldn't be thrilled to see Neal. If he brought along a man she'd come to view as a father figure, she might refuse to speak to either one of them.

Peter went outside to call Hughes from the terrace while Neal and Mozzie prepared the Braque forgery for its flight to Paris. The painting was only 24 by 20 inches and would easily fit inside one of Mozzie's custom suitcases. While they worked, Neal continued to puzzle over his cousin's behavior.

"What am I missing?" he asked. "I can't believe Angela overnight stopped loving Michael. She's also not the type to use drugs. I remember hearing her on at least two occasions lecture musicians about the harm they were doing to their bodies. What other choice is there?"

Mozzie stopped wrapping the canvas in palette tape and rested his chin on his hand. Was the resemblance to Rodin's _Thinker_ deliberate? With Mozzie it was often hard to know for sure, but thankfully he didn't strip off his clothes.

The Thinker spoke: "Once the impossible is eliminated, it's time to meander through the highly improbable. I've always found that to be much more pleasurable."

Neal eyed him warily. When Mozzie took flight on a Sherlock tangent, there was no telling where he'd land. Sherlock had been a drug user. Once Mozzie had followed his example and drugged himself to solve a crime. If Mozzie showed any inclination to do anything similar this time, Neal would—

"Could she have been possessed?" Mozzie stroked his lip for a moment. "Or there's always the possibility of space aliens. Demons, perhaps. Several options come to mind. Nor should we exclude the effect which being scratched by a zombie would cause." He turned to Neal. "Did Michael mention any unusual wolf howls? There was a full moon last week."

Zombies, werewolves? Neal shuddered.

"Perhaps you should check with Dean and Sam. They'll be in town soon."

"Why?" Neal lowered his voice with a quick glance toward the terrace. Peter was still talking on his cell. "Have vampires been spotted in the city?"

"Not yet, although you realize it's inevitable. Janet told me Chloe's moving to New York. She's signed a contract with a publishing house."

Chloe's move to New York was a surprise, but trust Janet to know. Mozzie's girlfriend had bonded with Chloe as a fellow naturalist. Would Peter be upset by the news? Did he still hold a grudge for her having inadvertently turned him into a dork? Neal would need to break the news carefully. Now was not the time. If Peter thought their road trip might be the highway to vampire-land, Neal wouldn't stand a chance of winning approval.

Neal quickly changed the subject off anything remotely suggesting the supernatural. "How long will you be in Paris?" he asked.

Mozzie didn't seem bothered by the _non sequitur_. "Probably only a couple of days."

"Give my regards to André." His former fencing coach and fellow thief had agreed to act as their go-between. "I hope it won't be long before Peter agrees to place it on the market."

"We can't offer it for sale until Henry returns," Mozzie reminded him. "That will give you plenty of time to deal with whatever is going on with Angela. I intend to make use of the break to fly to Rome after my business in Paris is concluded. Do you remember Luchino?"

"Luchino Borroni? Your friend at the Vatican library?" Luchino worked in the manuscript department as a Scriptore. Mozzie had called upon his help when they first learned about Astrena.

"The very same. Luchino believes he's found a manuscript which may be relevant to our elusive Greek goddess. I plan to spend an enlightening day exploring the collection with him. Then, over a carefully selected fine vintage of Barolo, I shall probe his mind about the Vatican's secret vault."

"The Vatican insists there isn't one."

"Naturally. They'll never admit it"—Mozzie tapped the side of his nose—"but we know otherwise."

 _We_? Neal certainly didn't have any knowledge about it. Mozzie had mentioned the Vatican's secret vault before. Would Luchino provide information to rouse his slumbering conspiracy theory?

Peter walked in, saving him from hearing any details about what precisely Mozzie was seeking. Neal had enough cons running at the moment. There was _no room_ for extraneous conspiracy theories.

"We got a green light," Peter reported. "Hughes agreed that this will be an excellent opportunity to show my favoritism."

"Will you invite El to accompany us?" Neal asked hopefully. She could be helpful if it was a woman thing. Angela would more likely confide in her if she didn't want her mom to know.

"I just spoke with her. She has an event scheduled for Tuesday evening and can't leave. Since this is ostensibly a business trip, that's for the best. We can take the train tomorrow morning and rent a car in D.C."

Neal nodded, forestalling a yawn. Mozzie's mead packed more of a wallop than he'd realized.

Hawk-eyed Peter frowned. "You've been pulling double duty—working at the office during business hours and painting at night. You can consider this trip comp time."

"Thanks. You won't hear me say this often, but I'll enjoy a reprieve. I was dreaming about painting rivers all night. My head's stuffed with more ideas than I possibly have time to execute." Neal didn't add that when he woke up, he was standing in front of his easel, working on a canvas. Peter might think he was suffering a relapse, and that wasn't the case. His friend Aidan, an expert programmer, woke up in the middle of night to write down code he'd dreamed about. What Neal had done was basically the same.

"I'm glad to hear you recognize it when you're overdoing it. I have to admit when I first saw you yawn, I thought it was from your date."

"That didn't work out. My date came down with a stomach bug. Electra took me out to dinner instead."

"Oh? Should I be worried? How late were you out?"

Neal hesitated for a moment before replying.

"Neal?"

"Three o'clock," he finally admitted. This new openness he and Peter had agreed to was going to bite him.

Peter's eyes widened. "You stayed that late with Electra? Did she turn out to be a cougar, after all?"

"It's not what you think," Neal quickly protested. "There were others involved."

"Time for me to go," Mozzie interjected quickly. "I'll give Paris your greetings. Suit, remember not to believe everything you hear."

Before Neal could object, Mozzie scurried off with the Braque. A rat fleeing a sinking ship couldn't have moved faster. Considering what happened, the comparison was especially apt.

 **On the Road. Monday, August 1.**

"Enough with the stonewalling." Peter sent his pushover-boss persona to the sidelines as he steered the car onto the entrance ramp of the interstate. "I lived up to my side of the bargain. I even agreed to rent the car you wanted."

"Don't expect points for that," Neal retorted. "You know you wanted this silver Mustang."

Peter permitted himself a smile. Neal had him. That car brought back memories of his college days. And Neal was right—it helped sell the con. The idea was to make Peter look like an easy mark for Neal's schemes. What could be more inappropriate than renting a Mustang convertible for a business trip? But Peter wasn't about to admit defeat.

"I let you hold off during the train ride. And that was really overly generous on my part since I'd already promised to rent the Mustang. We've got about an hour before we arrive in Shepherdstown for you to tell me what happened Saturday night. And since you've spent so long building it up, it better be good."

"Gosh, I didn't realize your standards were so high. I don't think the story's worthy of you. Forget it."

"Nothing doing, Junior. You already coughed up that others were involved. Did you go out partying?"

"Not in the way you think." Neal described his dinner with Electra at the hotel. Peter had never been to the Plaza Athénée, but he'd heard how elegant it was. Neal must have been impressed. "We discussed art most of the time. You'll like this part—Electra encouraged me to add more bridges to my series of river paintings."

"Did she now?" Peter chuckled. "She's just risen a notch in my estimation."

"She also offered to introduce me to a friend who's the owner of an art gallery. He occasionally hosts receptions for new artists."

"El told me she'd mentioned the gallery over lunch. Electra's connections could prove useful."

When Neal didn't answer, Peter stole a glance from the highway to look at him. "Problem?"

"They could come at too high a cost," he acknowledged. "Electra was sending signals that I'm quite familiar with. I've no wish for her endorsement if it comes with strings."

Were El's original instincts right? Neal was no stranger to women making a play for him. As a general rule, he wasn't averse to flirting back.

"She invited me upstairs to her suite after dinner. I was inclined to accept—I'd never seen the suites at the Plaza Athénée. If they're as sumptuous as the public areas, it would be worth a visit. But I realized I'd have to mislead her. She's a lovely person—refined, sophisticated. I was flattered, but I won't take advantage of her."

"Good for you." Electra's wealth and connections made her a prized patron. Neal's refusal to play the game earned him high marks.

Neal shrugged. "It was probably for the best that Mozzie called with an emergency."

"That's why you were up so late?"

He nodded glumly. "When I heard Percy was lost, I had to help."

"Who's Percy?"

"Mozzie's pet rat."

Peter snorted, taking a turn slightly faster than he would have otherwise.

"Eyes on the road!" Neal yelled, grabbing the armrest. "I shouldn't go into the details. You'll be distracted. Unless you'll let me drive?" he added hopefully.

"Nothing doing. This Mustang's in my name. So Mozzie keeps a pet."

"He does and Percy's a member of the family."

"I hope you appreciate that I'm not making any reference to Mozzie's relations."

"I do, and I realize what an effort it must cost you. Percy was looking a little dispirited when he heard Mozzie was departing for France, or at least that's what Mozzie assured me. He attempted to cheer him up by letting him loose in the apartment. Percy took advantage of his newfound liberty to race off seeking adventure. Mozzie was frantic when he called. If Percy couldn't be found, he'd have to cancel the trip to Paris. You understand my dilemma."

"More to the point, did Electra?"

Neal's grin registered with Peter even with his eyes on the road. "I was saved by the rat! I claimed a family emergency. It took hours but we eventually found him hiding in a stairwell."

"Do I want to know which building?"

"No, you definitely do not. I expect I'll have another opportunity to see Electra's suite. She mentioned she comes to New York often. Now that she'll likely be a benefactor to El's community theater group—"

"You shouldn't feel any pressure because of that," Peter interrupted. "I'm proud of you for not playing the patronage game."

"Then you'll let me drive the Mustang?"

He flicked a glance at Neal's pleading eyes. "Once we're in town."

He nodded, looking satisfied. "Electra must know plenty of artists who'd be thrilled for her patronage. She's a fascinating person. Even though I wasn't interested, I couldn't deny her allure." He chuckled. "I owe Percy. Who knows what would have happened in that suite? Would I have fallen prey to her magnetism?"

"Speaking of prey, did you check with the Winchesters? I vowed never to go on another road trip if they were in the area."

"I wondered when you'd bring them up. Mozzie heard from Chloe that they're in Cape May. This will please you. There are no vampires or witches terrorizing the seaside resort. Supposedly a vengeful spirit is running amok."

"Cape May's not that far from Shepherdstown."

"Yes, it is. It must be over four hours away. I wish it was closer though. You remember that idea I had for Henry? I'd love to stop by and pick their brains on ghost sightings."

"You realize that Henry may never forgive you."

"You don't seem bothered about ghosts," Neal commented, dismissing Peter's warning.

"After our experiences with vampires and witches? Hardly. Bring on as many Caspers as you want."

"Sure, you're fine with the lovable ghosts, but how about the not-so-friendly? This ghost Dean and Sam are facing doesn't sound like any I'd want to visit. By the way, did I mention that Shepherdstown is known as 'the most haunted town in America'?"

Peter let out a curse and nearly pulled off the road. "You're not serious?"

"'Fraid so. I wasn't going to tell you, but you're bound to see the signs. I suspect that's why Angela picked the place for her field work. You know how she likes horror tales."

Peter refused to dwell on that gloomy topic. He took comfort from the fact that no apparitions had ever appeared to darken his days. He'd focus on identity fraud. Neal would verify that Angela was okay. They should be back at work by Wednesday.

Before leaving for the train, Peter had reviewed the case history with Jones. Max Ganesh spearheaded the new identity theft initiative in D.C. and Peter had made an appointment to meet with him the following day.

Graham Winslow and his wife Julia had invited Peter for dinner tonight. They'd meet in Frederick, Maryland, about midway between their home in Baltimore and Shepherdstown. Once the U-boat con started, Graham would be working with Hughes. As a veteran warrior, Graham relished the thought of going back into battle for what might be the last time. Peter suspected Graham would make full use of the evening to brainstorm ideas.

Hughes had given his permission for the con to begin the following week. Peter hadn't told Neal yet, because in his own mind it was contingent on Neal's performance over the next several days. Peter planned to monitor him closely to make sure he was one hundred percent ready.

So far so good. Neal appeared to have taken his advice and looked much more rested than the previous day. Neal would meet with Angela and Michael this evening. Based on what he discovered, he could either spend the next day with Peter in D.C. or have the day with Angela and Michael.

Neal had selected their hotel. The Thomas Shepherd Inn was reported to be a charming place that El would have loved. The rate was no more than what it would have cost them to stay in D.C.

Shepherdstown was a small college town with less than two thousand inhabitants. Neal had clearly researched the place. On the drive in, he expounded on its history. Located along the Potomac River in the lower Shenandoah Valley, it was the oldest town in West Virginia. _And also the most haunted_ . . . It really wasn't necessary for Neal to repeat that part.

Peter steeled himself. This was simply another business trip. No different from scores of others he'd taken. The Winchesters weren't here. No matter how difficult Angela's issues were, no vampires or witches would be involved.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Michael texted Neal when they were a half hour out of Shepherdstown. He and Angela would meet Neal at the Blue Moon Café early that evening. When Neal asked if Angela were any better, he'd replied with one word: _worse_.

Neal was so distracted by thoughts of Angela that he only realized as they drove into town how preoccupied Peter had become. He didn't even josh Neal about his music choices. A sure indication he was stewing about something.

Neal was on the point of asking him when Peter suddenly swerved onto a side street and gunned the Mustang like he was on a racetrack.

"Hey, Mario, what gives? The posted speed limit is about a third what you're clocking. As one with some experience in avoiding arrests, I can—"

"Did you see that man?"

"What man?" Bewildered, Neal glanced around. There were a few student types walking on the sidewalk. A couple of women with strollers. No one who should cause Peter to frantically scan the streets.

He slowed to a crawl. "I was sure . . . but now . . . I dunno. I only saw the back. The clothes weren't typical."

"Who did you think it was?" Neal demanded.

Peter pulled off to the side of the road, frowning for a moment before answering. "Curtis Hagen or I suppose I should call him Crowley now."

Now it was Neal's turn to scan in all directions. "What exactly did you see?"

Peter let out a frustrated exhale. "I caught a brief glimpse of a face. He was walking on the sidewalk. It was the swagger more than anything else which alerted me to him. He was wearing a black suit and black shirt. I guess if you're a demon, that's appropriate. If he was here, he's gone now."

At Peter's mention of Crowley, Neal's anxiety meter registered _tilt_. Peter had shown no reluctance to grumble about the supernatural events they might encounter on a road trip. That wasn't surprising. Their track record over the past few months would make anyone cautious. But he'd assumed Peter wasn't freaking out about it.

Had his concerns turned unhealthy? Was Peter now seeing things?

Or had the strain of worrying about Neal's issues finally driven Peter over the edge? The thought that he might be the cause had Neal's heart thudding to the floor of the Mustang where it bounced like a rubber band ball.

Neal had spent the past couple of weeks exorcising fake memories which had been planted in his head. Throughout the ordeal, Peter had been his rock—supporting him and helping him through it. Now, just as Neal had finally purged his mind, Peter was succumbing to fake visions of his own. This was bad. They were on the eve of a major con. Neal needed Peter sharp, not seeing things. It would be one of the most complicated cons Neal had ever pulled, and Peter's con skills were still at rookie level.

Yes, he'd given Peter a few lessons over the past year. The ski resort where Peter played a sexy ski instructor—that was Neal's personal favorite. Then there was the corrupt bank manager during the Samurai bond sting. Peter had showed a real flair. But on both occasions Peter's opponents were amateurs. Now he would be playing in the majors with expert con artists as his opponents.

Was Peter even aware of the problem? At least Neal had recognized he was being influenced by mind tricks. Peter might not. It was up to Neal to ensure that Peter was ready for the con. Otherwise they'd have to rethink it.

"Damn it!" Peter slapped the steering wheel. In a minute, steam would come out of his ears. "Where'd he go?"

"You only got a brief glimpse." Neal paused to overlay an extra layer of calmness to his voice. No need to exacerbate his frustration.

" _You_ think I'm seeing things."

"I didn't say that. When you interrupted me, I simply wanted to point out it's easy to be fooled by a quick look. You remember how obsessed I was with Keller? Last February, I was sure he was stalking my friends at the sci-fi convention."

That brought a smile to Peter's face. "You were a nervous wreck. You'd gone over the edge, thinking everyone in a costume was him."

"I wasn't _that_ bad." No need to get carried away. It would have been just like Keller to disguise himself in a Wookiee costume. "But I admit, I was so focused on the con—"

"—sting"

Neal huffed. " _FBI-sanctioned operation_ that I may have overdone it. You pursued Hagen for years, only to witness him transform into a demon. When Diana and Jones brought him up at the briefing, they inadvertently opened the wound. It's natural that if you saw someone resembling him, you'd leap to the conclusion it was our ex-forger turned demon."

"You're right. What business would Crowley possibly have in a sleepy little town like Shepherdstown?" Peter relaxed visibly. "I must have been mistaken."

"On the other hand, if you truly believe Shepherdstown is the most haunted town in America . . . Should I call the Winchesters?"

"No!" Peter thundered.

"Good idea. Let's wait till the second sighting."

Peter groaned. "Where's this inn of yours?"

There were no more Crowley sightings in the few minutes it took to arrive at their destination. The Thomas Shepherd Inn was a former parsonage which dated back to the 1800s. Any lingering spirits should be benevolent. The inn was built in the Federal style like most of the buildings in the historic district—simple painted brick boxes with metal roofs and decorative moldings in contrasting colors.

He and Peter were shown to their rooms by their innkeeper Edith Logan, a retired schoolteacher. The rooms were bright with quilted counterpanes and homespun touches. It was the perfect setting for Peter to unwind and stop obsessing about demons.

The restaurant Michael had selected was a two-block stroll from the hotel. The peaceful town appeared to be an idyllic location for Angela to spend her summer. How could she and Michael have gone astray?

The Blue Moon Café was a one-story rambling establishment with a retro hippie vibe. Flowers were everywhere. Neal found the squabbling lovebirds in the back garden which served as an outdoor dining area. Surely in such a setting it wouldn't take long for Angela to be cooing at Michael once more.

But as soon as Neal greeted her, it was clear why Michael was worried. Angela simply wasn't the same lighthearted, vivacious cousin.

Neal had been prepared to explain his visit as something he'd tacked onto a business trip. For his part, Michael explained he'd arranged the dinner as a surprise. They needn't have bothered to make an excuse. Angela couldn't have cared less. The way she was acting, Neal was no more entertaining than one of the potted plants. As for Michael, her heartthrob for the past several months, he got less attention than the pot Neal was planted in.

Worry quickly overcame the appeal of the menu with its farm-to-table produce, local brews and wines. Neal settled on a Merlot from the Doukenie Winery a few miles away to fortify himself for what would be a stressful evening.

Throughout dinner Angela was quiet and withdrawn, her mind seemingly a million miles away. Neal's attempts to engage her interest with the identify theft problems of her friends went nowhere. Ditto for her field work. In past conversations, Angela had talked his head off about how she could use folk instruments with young learners to jump-start their education. In her newfound enthusiasm for ethnic music, she'd taught herself to play the hammered dulcimer last winter. If there was one topic Neal figured he could get her to speak about, it was music. But he struck out there as well . . . until, that is, he mentioned the dulcimer.

Angela transformed before his eyes. Her eyes sparkling, her expression animated, she become the bubbly Angela once more. Only one problem. It wasn't the dulcimer she found fascinating, but a certain dulcimer player.

"Neal, you have to hear him perform! He's a genius on the dulcimer. He could perform at Carnegie Hall!"

"His name is Lutar Garrington," Michael supplied, the gloom in his voice evident to Neal's ears although Angela paid him no heed.

"And do you also feel he's Apollo's gift to the world?" Neal asked.

"Of course he does," Angela retorted before Michael had a chance to answer, "and don't mock Lutar."

"I wouldn't think of—"

"Well, see that you don't. This past week he's been conducting workshops on the dulcimer for the music department at Shepherd University. Next weekend he'll give a concert at Shipley Recital Hall."

Anyone that Angela was so interested in, Neal was too, even if Michael did sag deeper into his chair at each mention of Lutar's name. No wonder Michael worried that Angela had fallen out of love with him. She showed no physical symptoms of being drugged. Her pupils were their normal size. She didn't slur her words. Her coordination was fine. It was her personality that was out of whack.

Lutar had invited Angela to perform with him at the upcoming concert. A rehearsal was scheduled for tonight and she urged Neal and Michael to attend.

Neal wouldn't miss it.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After dinner they rode in Michael's rental car to the university. Angela dropped them off in the recital hall before leaving to prepare. Neal was surprised at how many people were attending the rehearsal. Mainly college students but some older adults as well.

Michael was anxious to hear his opinion, but Neal hesitated on how much to say. Clearly Angela wasn't acting like herself, but the cause was unknown.

When an audible gasp came from several women in the audience, Michael nudged Neal. "That's Lutar. What do you think?"

He and Michael were sitting close to the stage so Neal could get a close look. Blond hair, tall, roughly his age. Lutar was lean to the point of being haggard and clad in skintight black leather pants with a ruffled shirt. Many of the women in the hall were acting like he was a rock star. Some of them went on stage to talk with him as he set up his equipment. There was a vulnerability to his sharp, ascetic features which worked well with his low, husky voice. His fans appeared mesmerized by him.

A few minutes later, Angela walked out on stage. She'd changed into a goth look. It was a style she'd often used at her rock concerts, but this one seemed even more dramatic—a dark carmine red gown which hung in artistic tatters around her. She wore a bejeweled dog collar which Neal hadn't seen before. Was that a sign she now belonged to Lutar? By the moonstruck looks she gave him, it certainly appeared that way.

Angela started off the rehearsal with Grace Slick's "White Rabbit." She accompanied herself on the dulcimer. A couple of guitarists and a drummer supplied backup. Neal had thought Grace Slick couldn't be topped, but Angela's version was even moodier and more haunting. As she sang into the mic, Neal was struck by how the pounding beat reminded him of blood pumping in his veins. Was it the color of her gown? Or perhaps Lutar beside her? After the first verse, his smoky voice harmonized with hers, adding to the darkness of the sound.

Was this the same cousin their grandmother had nicknamed Funny Bunny? She'd been transformed into a dark rabbit.

Or was Neal overreacting? Angela latched onto new ideas with passion and enthusiasm. She'd been that way when she embraced ethnic folk music. Was this simply another example? In another month perhaps she'd revert to her normal self. Angela hadn't said she was personally attracted to Lutar. Conceivably she could simply be enamored with his music, although plainly Michael didn't think that was the case.

Lutar played several solo selections on the dulcimer. There was no doubt of his talent. He was able to manipulate the dulcimer to convey emotions more powerfully than anyone Neal had heard. Most of the songs were of sadness and destruction. When he sang, "Nothing Else Matters," Angela looked like he was all that mattered. Between selections, he talked about his music with the audience. His voice had a subtle foreign accent. At first Neal thought it was Eastern European, perhaps Romanian, but it also had a hint of phoniness about it. Lutar blended European and American sounds in a way that simply wasn't natural.

The last number was "The Kiss," which both Lutar and Angela performed. Neither one sang but they gazed into each other's eyes as they played their dulcimers to hypnotic effect. Neal's mood darkened as he watched her, and Michael was drowning in jealousy. If Angela's passion wasn't real, she was a better actress than their grandmother.

Angela wasn't alone in feeling the heat. Several women in the audience had her same entranced look. The guy wasn't that handsome. What was it?

Neal wished he had something encouraging he could tell Michael, but he had every right to despair.

After rehearsal, Neal tried to talk with Angela but she brushed him off, saying she and Lutar were going back to his place to rehearse some new songs. Michael erupted at her words and dragged her aside. It was the first time Neal had ever seen Michael angry. Neal didn't blame him, but he only served to make Angela flare back at him. This wasn't Angela. It made Neal reconsider drugs. She wasn't showing any physical symptoms, but the change in her personality was too dramatic for it to be anything else.

While they argued, Neal talked with some of the other students. To find out what had happened with Angela, he needed to know more about Lutar Garrington. Neal already knew he didn't like him, but was he dangerous?

 **Roadside Motel in Cape May, New Jersey.**

"Don't use all the hot water!" Dean called out as Sam headed for the shower.

"You already had one shower. The rest is mine."

"Bitch," muttered Dean. He could still smell the residue. It must have gotten into his pores. They'd both been slimed with ectoplasm from that ghost. The stuff was black as tar and just as sticky. On the way back to the motel, they'd sat on newspapers to protect the car upholstery.

But it was worth it. Cape May's ghost population was reduced by one honkin' mean ghost who'd caused the deaths of four people. The town's other ghost reports all seemed benign. Dean was ready to move on. Cape May, like so many other towns, was raking in tourist dollars from its resident spooks. As long as they didn't kill anyone, he was fine with letting Cape May's Caspers roam free.

Dean rummaged through Sam's duffel bag to find his laptop. Time to scout the next monster on the loose.

A slim book was buried under his clothes. Dean paused. He hadn't noticed Sam reading anything. As his older and wiser brother, shouldn't he keep tabs on Sam's books? Which brain was he thinking with? Knowing Sam, it'd probably be the upstairs brain which meant no porn photos, but you could always dream. Monster research could wait.

Dean pulled out the book. _The Dream Keeper_? Never heard of it. The illustration on the cover didn't look promising, and when he opened it up, his fears were confirmed. Seriously? What hunter picks poetry over porn? That had to be Maia's influence. Sam never used to read poetry. Was he writing the stuff too? The next time Sam joshed him about watching Oprah, Dean would have his water bomb primed to launch.

When Dean's cell phone rang, he jumped on it, hoping it was Bobby with a job, preferably one involving no ectoplasm. Instead, the display said it was Neal. Dean hadn't heard from him since the vampires in New Jersey. Neal wasn't known to call to make small talk.

And this was no exception. But instead of vampires being the topic, this one had Dean scratching his head. "Demonic dulcimer? In answer to your question, yes, objects can be cursed, but what the hell's a dulcimer?"

"It's a folk string instrument, a little like a zither." As Neal explained what he'd witnessed, Dean understood why he was worried. His cousin had gone through a radical personality change in less than a week. No evidence of drug use, no slurred speech.

"If the instrument's cursed, it likely would affect anyone who touched it." Dean thought for a moment. "You say a dulcimer has strings. It could be that the strings are cursed. Then only those who played it would suffer the effects. That would mean this guy Lutar is also acting under its influence."

"I talked with others in the audience and several of the women seemed similarly smitten. You could see it in their eyes when they looked at Lutar."

"I suppose the dulcimer could cast some sort of love spell. Could the other women have played it too?"

Neal made a rumbling sound low in his throat. "He's been giving workshops on the dulcimer. He could have had them try it out."

"If you're looking for something paranormal, another possibility is possession." Dean dredged through the other cases they'd investigated for similarities. The power of Hook Man, a vengeful spirit, was linked to a hook which had replaced his hand. But in that case there had been brutal murders. "Or the guy could be charming them. You remember those accounts of pure-blood vampires? They're supposed to have the ability. Not only that, there are reports they can erase memories, so the victim wouldn't have any recollection of what happened while they under the influence."

Neal was silent for a moment. Clearly _not_ something he'd considered. "Have you heard of any vampire reports in the area?" There was a new note of worry in his voice. If he'd called Dean for reassurance that there was nothing supernatural which could have caused the change in his cousin's behavior, he was out of luck. Life sucked sometimes.

"No, but I can give Bobby a call. He's been keeping his ear to the ground for fang activity. Any chance Lutar is the pure-blood you saw in Jenny Jump State Forest?"

Dean wished he'd been the one to have witnessed the vamp, but maybe it was for the best. Neal had made a detailed drawing of what he saw. It looked like a guy about their age—slim with blond hair. Neal said his skin glowed with an internal fire, and damned if the drawing didn't look like it. No way Dean could have achieved that effect with his stick figures.

"He could be," Neal admitted. "I didn't see his face well enough to know for sure. Would that be a problem? He knows my scent."

"I wouldn't get worked up over fangs. My best guess is that your cousin is simply crushing on the dude. Even if Lutar was the vampire at the park, he probably wouldn't recognize you. He was just born when you saw him. His senses may not have fully developed. Any other weirdness to report?"

"Not sure if this was just Peter over-stressing, but he thought he saw Crowley on the street."

Dean swung his legs off the bed. Normally what Neal described wouldn't interest them. No mangled corpses, no gore on the streets? This was pretty tame stuff. But they'd had diddly squat for leads on pure-bloods, and Neal's account warranted at least a quick look. There'd been no reports on what Crowley had been up to since he'd taken possession of his new body. Had he set up shop in West Virginia? Crossroads demons plied their trade by making bargains. Could he be the cause of Angela's unusual behavior?

Shepherdstown wasn't far away. They didn't have any other jobs at the moment. Could be worth checking out.

* * *

 _Notes: Neal's grabbing at straws to figure out what's going on with Angela, but he shouldn't be so quick to dismiss the dreams he had after spending the evening with Electra. Could she have had a hand in why he found himself in front of an easel when he woke up? Electra's just getting started, but not everything will go as she wishes._

 _Next week Dean and Sam arrive on the scene and more is revealed about Angela's radical personality change. That's also the subject of my blog post, "When a Bunny Becomes a Rabbit."_

 _The Blue Moon Cafe and Thomas Shepherd Inn are real places in Shepherdstown, but the innkeeper is fictitious. I was inspired by the hammered dulcimer music of Scott Williams for Lutar and Angela's performance. You'll find pins of Scott Williams playing "Nothing Else Matters," "The Burning of the Piper's Hut" and my personal favorite—"The Kiss"—on the Dark Rabbit Pinterest board as well as pins for the locations in Shepherdstown. The Hook Man Dean refers to is from a canon episode of Supernatural (Season 1, Episode 7)._

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	4. Lutar

**Chapter 4: Lutar**

 **Electra's House, New Haven. August 1, 2005. Monday night.**

"Why is Neal in Shepherdstown?" Electra stared at Crowley with disbelief. Somehow she knew that when the demon materialized in her conservatory, her mood would be ruined. But she hadn't expected Neal to be involved. Just the mention of his name conjured up memories of her failure last Saturday. She'd been so close. If only she could have lured him into her suite, he would have been hers.

She set down her needle-nose shears beside the bee orchid. Pruning would have to wait.

Crowley flicked a non-existent speck of lint off his black suit. The demon had taken fastidiousness to an extreme. "Perhaps Cheekbones likes dulcimer music?"

"Cheekbones?" she repeated, her voice projecting a bit more thunder than she'd intended. Her Siamese cat Daphne leaped off her lap onto the grand piano, her back arched and her tail fluffed out to a bottlebrush. Electra was half-inclined to do the same.

Crowley went to the sideboard and helped himself to his favorite Scotch, Glencraig. In a concession to his services, she kept a supply for him.

"It suits him. Your new pet hangs around Burke, a Dick Tracy if I ever saw one."

"Did Neal spot you?"

"Of course not. I was backstage reviewing Lutar's accounts while the rehearsal was going on. I decided to take a break to see how our young pure-blood was performing."

Crowley dared to use the word _our_ . . . She'd wait to instruct him on his station in life at a later time. The pure-bloods were her creation, not his. Thirteen vampire princes she and her sisters had created a little over a month ago. Among them, Lutar was her favorite. "Any sign of the Winchester brothers?"

"Do you suspect they're also in Shepherdstown?" he asked, startled.

"The hunters have appeared to form a partnership with Neal and Peter. They were working together in New Jersey and Windsor, Connecticut. Why should this be any different? Did you discover what case brought Neal to Shepherdstown?"

"No, but I can ask around."

"Do it," she commanded. "What did you find out about Lutar?"

"He's set himself up as an Appalachian rock star, making the college girls swoon over him. I saw several he'd charmed to his will." As Crowley described the rehearsal he'd witnessed, Electra's mood darkened. She'd admonished the pure-bloods to conduct their affairs with discretion and not attract attention. Lutar was a disobedient prince to use his charm ability so openly.

"As you know, I acted on your orders and set him up with a palatial establishment. Fortunately, he hasn't been so preoccupied with the country wenches in Shepherdstown that he's lost track of business. The identity fraud trade has exceeded my expectations. Lutar's made over five hundred thousand dollars in less than a month. The recently turned fangs that I hand-selected for him have turned out to be wise investments."

Electra's sister Alcy had been right. For the past few months she'd instructed her vampires to target hackers from Eastern Europe. Alcy had a sharp head for business, and her latest scheme was deliciously simple. Charm the victim, acquire their credit card information, draw off enough blood to satisfy the fangs then release them. No deaths meant that they'd stay off the radar of hunters and the local police, and they had more than enough funds to keep everyone satisfied. The key, as always, was not to draw attention to themselves. Had Lutar gone too far? Was Neal there because someone had complained to the FBI about him?

Electra closed her eyes. _Maia, I have need of you._

A minute later, her sister coalesced in the chamber. She was barefoot, wearing a pale pink shirt over faded jeans. Her hair hung loose on her shoulders. Electra sighed. Simply because she was enrolled at Yale didn't mean she had to dress like a student.

Maia gave a brief nod to Crowley and sprawled on the velvet settee. "Will this take long?"

"Were you feeding on Sam?"

"No, I was writing a paper."

Crowley sat down beside her. "I know you're a grad student, but you're not actually doing the work, are you?"

"Of course I am. My doctorate is on the role of magic in the ancient Greco-Roman world."

Crowley snorted. "You could write the book on it. Are you revealing any trade secrets?"

She darted a quick glance to Electra. "I'm not that dumb. I'm basing my work on what the cultures believed. Sometimes they were remarkably close to the truth."

Electra had reluctantly given Maia permission but she was beginning to have second thoughts. University life was influencing Maia more than she'd anticipated. What was originally intended to be a cover was turning into an avocation. For centuries without number she'd kept Maia close. Of all the sisters, Maia had been the most obedient. Now she was displaying hints of independence which indicated she'd bear watching. "Do you know where Sam is?"

"He's been in Cape May with Dean," Maia said. "As far as I know they're still there." Electra wished she could read her thoughts. Was Maia nervous simply out of deference to her or was something else going on?

"Use a locator potion." Electra commanded. "Let me know if they're anywhere close." She turned to Crowley. "Go back and find out why Neal is there."

"Can't you read his mind?" he asked.

"Unfortunately not. Sampling their blood enables us to enter their minds while feeding off their creativity. We can project our thoughts but have no way of sensing theirs. That's a good thing for you. It gives me a reason to keep you around."

Crowley got the message. He, as well as everyone else who served her, lived at her discretion. That included wayward sisters. If Maia was wise, she wouldn't stray off the path.

Crowley drained his glass and made a bow. "Until later, Exalted One." Snapping his fingers, he disappeared.

 **Thomas Shepherd Inn, Tuesday morning.**

"Have another spice biscotti," Neal urged, pressing the basket on Peter. "They're outstanding. I should get the recipe for El."

With a sigh, Peter took one, but he knew it wouldn't improve his mood. Yes, the breakfast room at the inn was delightful with its maple ladder-back chairs and Currier and Ives prints on the walls. Usually, a breakfast of Virginia ham, eggs, and homemade biscuits would be enough to make his day, but these were not normal times. When he returned to the inn the previous evening, he found Neal on the phone with Dean Winchester. The glow from the delicious dinner he'd enjoyed at Brewer's Alley in Frederick with Graham and Julia vanished in a puff of supernatural smoke.

Peter had done his best to convince Neal that Angela was simply going through a phase. Female hormones could explain a multitude of mood swings. Or, worst case scenario, Angela and Michael were heading for some rocky times. A lamentable but natural occurrence.

Peter was prepared to offer the benefit of his wisdom. Women could be perplexing creatures. But no. Neal insisted the cause had to be demonic. Was the design of a horse-drawn carriage on his plate an omen that he and Neal should hightail it out of here?

"You're not listening to me," Neal said, looking frustrated. "I know this isn't what you want to hear. You think I like the idea that Angela could be under the influence of some spell? But when I saw several others in the audience reacting the same way, I knew something was off."

"And naturally the first thought that came to you was a demonic dulcimer?"

"Not the first," he muttered. "Possession was a possibility, too."

Peter jabbed his fork in Neal's direction. "You know what your trouble is. You've been singing at too many concerts instead of listening with the crowd. What you described sounds like Angela's gone gaga over a musician. Happens _all_ the time."

"You think I don't know that," Neal huffed. "I've had to deal with groupies. So has Angela. And her behavior is _not_ the same. Angela is far too kind a person to treat Michael the way she is. If she'd fallen for someone else, she'd let him down gently." He shook his head, his mouth tightening. "Something else is affecting her."

The only thing Peter knew was that he was glad he'd come along. Was Neal thinking straight? How could he possibly believe a possessed dulcimer was a rational explanation? Peter had intended for this week to be a test, and so far Neal was failing. Clearly he wasn't ready for field work. When they got back to New York, Peter would have to put the brakes on starting the con against Adler.

Peter reviewed his options while munching on the biscotti. He couldn't slam the kid too hard, or Neal would regret being open with him. "Did Dean mention any other possibilities?" Despite the monsters he routinely dealt with, Dean was a reasonable guy, not inclined to exaggerate. Surely he'd stressed a non-paranormal cause.

Neal nodded. "You won't like it."

"It can't be worse than what you already told me."

"Dean thinks there's a chance Lutar could be one of those pure-bloods that were created during the summer solstice—perhaps the same individual I saw in the woods. He has the right build and hair color."

Peter eyed him skeptically. "That vampire glowed. Was Lutar incandescent as well?"

Neal glared at him. "No, but even fireflies need time off to recharge their batteries. Then, when I told Dean that you saw Crowley on the streets—"

"Wait a minute," Peter protested. "Don't put this on me. I'm sure I was mistaken."

"That's not how you felt yesterday." Neal's phone vibrated. When Peter discovered that Dean was on the other end, he knew why Neal didn't put the call on speaker. Dean didn't mince words. No doubt Neal wanted to massage the monster bulletin into something more palatable. Peter braced himself for what was to come.

"Sam checked with Bobby," Neal said, turning off his phone, "and he's heard of music instruments being possessed by demonic forces. Bobby was more concerned about Crowley, though. He's a crossroads demon."

"What's that?"

"Dean explained he's a demon who makes bargains with humans. For instance he could have granted Lutar the ability to be irresistible in exchange for his soul or a shorter lifespan."

"Who in their right mind would agree to that?"

Neal shrugged. "Maybe Lutar is the one who's doped out. He doesn't care what happens to him in ten years."

"How about vampire reports?"

"Bobby doesn't know of any nests in the area, but he agreed that Angela's symptoms could indicate she'd been charmed. Dean and Sam think it's worth checking out. They'll be here midday." Raking his hair off his forehead, Neal didn't attempt to speculate on what he'd tell Angela.

"No vampires. Not this time." Peter couldn't bellow like he wanted to. There weren't any other guests in the dining room, but their hostess was in the kitchen. "Of all the places in the world a pure-blood could have gone to, he picked the one town where Angela is? That can't be right. Despite my joshing you about being a vampire magnet, I don't actually believe it, and it certainly couldn't extend to your cousin. There has to be a non-supernatural explanation."

His words didn't appear to have the reassuring effect he was aiming for. "You want me to stay around?" Peter didn't have a clue how he could help, but Neal looked so miserable, he needed to do something.

"No need. I'm meeting Angela and Michael at the university later this morning. She's scheduled to spend the morning with the kids. The _Bunnicula_ performance is scheduled for this coming weekend. Angela's assigned us to paint props while they rehearse." He exhaled. "Dean asked me to find out if Angela has any bite marks." He grimaced. "I'm not looking forward to that."

"You'll give me a call if something comes up?"

He nodded. He took a breath and gave Peter a halfhearted imitation of his normal smile. "So how's the world of identity fraud?"

Peter was glad Neal changed the topic. At this point he'd have to rely on Dean and Sam to deliver the knockout punch to Neal's concerns. "Jones transmitted an analysis of the cases in this area. The entire D.C. region has been unusually hard hit. The Greater Washington metroplex covers sections of Maryland and West Virginia and includes Shepherdstown. With over six million people in the region, charting a pattern isn't easy. It appears that the cases Angela brought up are a tiny part of a much larger epidemic."

Peter drained the last of his orange juice. Neal had barely touched his breakfast. He was absently slicing his ham into tiny pieces, his thoughts no doubt swirling around Angela.

Peter wished he had an excuse to lock her up. At a minimum, she needed protective custody until the facts were known. But from the sound of it, there was no way she'd agree. If Peter called her mother Paige, Angela might become so angry, she'd bolt.

Would Neal manage to stay out of harm's way while Peter was gone? Realistically, even if vampires were around they wouldn't strike till night. Dean and Sam would be here soon. Peter would be back in Shepherdstown well before dusk. "When I'm in D.C., I'll run a check on Lutar."

Neal's face brightened. "Thank you. I ran one from my laptop last night and couldn't find anything."

"D.C.'s files may hold something. I'll also look into reports of missing persons and unexplained murders. If there are any vampires around, something should pop up. You and Michael aren't the only ones worried about Angela. I am too. I can be back here in an hour if anything comes up. Actually, in the Mustang I'm driving, make that thirty minutes."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The university was a short walk from the inn. Neal enjoyed strolling through the wooded campus which blended colonial style buildings with modern structures. The contemporary arts center which housed the music, art, and drama departments was next door to the recital hall where they'd been the previous day.

What would Angela be like today? Neal suspected his hope for a miracle transformation was dead in the water. Michael would have texted him if there'd been any radical change. The previous day Angela had acted indifferent to Neal being in town. Her suggestion that Neal help Michael appeared designed to give Michael someone to hang around with so he wouldn't pester her.

Neal found Michael arranging chairs in the rehearsal room.

"As soon as we arrived, she took off," he reported gloomily. "She said she had something to check on. That was a half hour ago."

Neal lectured himself to relax. The kids weren't due for another thirty minutes. "I'm sure she'll be back in time." Neal injected a note of confidence which he didn't feel.

Michael reminded him of a Canadian Mountie—a Dudley Do-Right if ever there was one. He'd rowed on the University of Washington's crew as an undergrad. With rugged good looks and the heart of an overgrown puppy dog, Michael was as true blue as they came. It was impossible to believe Angela would have ditched him for a musician she barely knew unless some other force was at work.

Her absence gave Neal the opportunity he needed. Michael was staying with Angela in a campus apartment supplied by the university. Asking delicate questions about their private lives was not something Neal had ever contemplated having to do, but it was necessary. He learned that Michael and Angela had been intimate only once over the weekend, and Michael conveyed the distinct impression she was dialing it in.

"Did you notice any marks on her?" Neal asked.

Michael stared at him. "Hickies? No, we don't go in for rough stuff."

Neal sighed. "Not that kind of mark. Needle marks, tattoos, or . . . bite marks?" The last suggestion he said in such a low voice Michael had to strain to hear him.

He stared at Neal aghast. "You think she may have joined some sort of weird cult?"

"Exactly!" Neal confirmed, relieved to pounce on Michael's assumption. "Every college seems to have its share of flaky groups."

"Tell me about it. I saw a sign at the Student Center at Columbia about a Wiccan coven that was forming. I had to ask a friend what Wicca was."

Did Chloe know about the coven? How many covens did she already belong to? Neal beat a hasty retreat from that uneasy speculation—Chloe was Dean's problem. "Angela may not have even known. Somebody could have given her a drug which acts as a hallucinogenic or cause behavior swings." Neal wished Mozzie was here. This was his specialty, not Neal's. "Angela needs to be tested."

"I don't see how we could get her to agree. She flares up over the tiniest remark. When I asked her if I'd done anything wrong, she almost bit my head off."

Neal swallowed. Surely Michael was exaggerating. Could Angela already have become one of the undead? Her skin had always been pale, and with the goth makeup she liked, it could be hard to tell. Michael had said she didn't have any wounds but pure-bloods might have other ways of turning their victims. Neal's stomach clenched into a knot.

Michael told him Lutar had stopped by the classroom the previous day while she was teaching and stayed to watch for a few minutes. Neal didn't need to ask Michael where he thought Angela was now. The dark cloud of Lutar hung over the classroom.

Angela hadn't arrived by the time the kids began pouring into the classroom. Neal put thoughts of his cousin on hold, except to panic that she wasn't there. Twenty kids, ranging in ages from seven to ten, were eager to rehearse and their leader was AWOL. Luckily she'd left the master script. It was up to Neal and Michael to lead her students through the rehearsal.

Angela had written the lyrics and music for the play. The production was hilarious with the kids playing the parts of a faithful dog who reminded Neal of Satchmo, a suspicious cat, a rabbit, as well as two kids and their parents. The suspense was provided by the cat who believed the veggie-sucking bunny was a vampire.

Instead of costumes, the children wore paper masks they'd colored. Those who weren't acting in a scene sang tunes composed by Angela. For many, it was their first time to play a music instrument. Michael could relate to them. He'd never played either till he picked up tambourine for the Celtic fusion band Neal had played in at Columbia last year. When Angela transferred to Columbia in January, she'd joined the band and learned the dulcimer. Around the same time, Michael graduated from tambourine to tin whistle.

Angela had obtained a small grant from her funding organization to purchase simple mountain dulcimers, penny whistles, and tambourines. Neal had never played any kind of dulcimer, but he got the kids to teach him. Soon both he and Michael were playing along with the kids as they went through the scenes.

The students didn't appear to mind Angela's absence. Michael was a natural at working with children. As for Neal, he had to resist grabbing the part of the cat for himself.

An hour into rehearsal, Angela finally showed up. Neal was glad to see that she was more natural with the kids than with them.

Neal waited till the students had left for the day to demand an explanation.

"Didn't I mention it last night?" she asked, looking honestly confused. "Lutar needed me." She scowled at Michael's groan. "This afternoon he's conducting a workshop on the hammered dulcimer. I'd offered to help him prepare. We have over thirty people scheduled to attend."

"Plus me," Neal said.

"You can't!" she said, shaking her head quickly. "You and Michael haven't even started painting the backdrops. I don't know what you were doing all morning. Did you forget the performance is scheduled for Saturday?"

She completely missed the sarcasm in Neal's reply and only grudgingly accepted Michael's offer to go to lunch. Neal excused himself from joining them. He had other plans. He'd come prepared with his laptop and had all the files he needed. The extra supplies he'd require he could obtain from the art workshops down the hall.

Neal had talked with Sam midmorning. They'd arrive in town in about an hour. Neal suggested they meet at his new favorite restaurant, the Blue Moon Café. Thanks to what he'd learned from Angela, he'd be able to provide them with a suitable cover. For the first time, Neal was starting to feel better about his prospects.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Make it two bottles," Crowley requested with a flip of two fingers.

The shopkeeper at the liquor store looked at him, startled. Had he never heard the Queen's English? "We don't generally have much demand for Glencraig."

 _Peasants_. Crowley's sigh was a low rumble. What he had to put up with in the backwoods of America. Would he have to single-handedly teach the rustic inhabitants of Shepherdstown the glory of single malt? The purveyor of this establishment had shelves stocked with Rebel Yell, Old Blowhard . . . Who in their right mind would possibly want to drink something labeled Old Crow? He would be doing the townspeople a favor to kill them all now.

"I'll check in the back," offered the shopkeeper.

"Yes, why don't you do that, my good man? Run along now." Rolling his eyes, Crowley turned to look out the store window. This experience provided additional ammunition in his drive to convince Electra that placing pure-bloods in the countryside was a waste of time. Just look at the streets. Where were the BMWs, the Jags? All he saw were a few pickups and family vans filled with smudges.

A café was across the street. Several cars remained in the parking lot from the lunch crowd. Crowley idly scanned them for any signs of culture and did a double-take. _Bollocks._ How many '67 Impalas could there be? And who was coming out of the door but the moose and squirrel themselves. He groaned. First Caffrey. Now the Winchesters. This was bloody intolerable.

Had Lutar's indiscretions drawn them to Shepherdstown? Was their vampire-sniffing ability that refined? Most of the common vamps had already been eliminated as Crowley restocked Lutar's minions with carefully selected superior specimens. More likely Caffrey was the cause. This was exactly what Electra had feared. The silver lining in the dark Winchester cloud was that in the future she'd be more appreciative of the astuteness of his counsel.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Sam and Dean returned to the garden of the Blue Moon Café in the evening, the same location they'd met Neal at lunch. Neal and Peter had already claimed one of the rustic wood tables when they showed up.

Peter looked at them hopefully as they sat down. "Nothing demonic, right?"

Sam tried to make his smile non-committal. He had a bad feeling about Lutar, but it may have been he just didn't like the dude. If he'd made a pact with a crossroads demon, he was to be pitied, not reviled.

Neal had filled them in on his cousin's behavior over lunch. Since she hadn't met them, he suggested they attend the afternoon workshop as producers for NPR. They were to con Lutar that they were producing a documentary series on Appalachian music. He had prepared IDs for them as well as some official-looking documents about the upcoming production. When Peter requested seeing them, Sam was happy to hand them over. As far as they were concerned, they were officially on an FBI case.

Neal was picking up the tab for dinner—craft beers from the Rogue brewery, chubby burgers piled high with Brie and bacon. Sam always enjoyed Neal's taste in restaurants. Dean wasn't sure about having Brie on his burger, but the French fries and onion rings would keep him happy.

Peter scrutinized the ID cards, holding them up to the light. "And you whipped these off after rehearsal?" he muttered to Neal.

Neal shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. Mozzie had been helping them out with fake cards for the past few months. How many of them had Neal made? Mozzie hadn't revealed his source and had warned them to never mention the cards to Peter.

Peter grunted and returned the IDs. "What's your assessment?"

"The participants in the workshop were friendly enough," Dean said, taking a swig of beer. "Many of them were picturing themselves in a one-on-one with Lutar by the sound of it. There were a few guys who were taken with him, but most of his fans were female."

"We drew straws to see who would wind up being the sacrificial lamb," Sam added, "and Dean lost."

"Why am I always the one to get the crap assignments?" Dean complained.

"You're the musician, not me," Sam pointed out. "I should have taken a photo of you with Lutar."

"Your turn's coming," Dean grumbled and turned to the others. "I had Lutar demonstrate the dulcimer to me. I strummed a few strings, but it didn't make me want to kiss the guy. Unless there's a delayed effect, I think we can safely rule out the dulcimer as the cause for whatever's gotten into your cousin."

"We noted a couple of small bandages," Sam added, "but nothing large enough to look like someone was feeding off anyone. The pallor fits for a vampire, but a lot of musicians don't hang out on the beach. We haven't had much of a chance to look for Crowley. He could be in league with that Connecticut witch, Alcy Lancaster. She might have cast a spell on Angela."

"Can a love spell actually work?" Peter asked.

"Sure," Dean said, reaching for the ketchup. "Spells can make you attack someone, become sick, act crazy, fall in love—you name it."

"Here's something else strange," Sam added. "When we introduced ourselves, Angela commented how much Dean looks like her cousin, Henry. That may be another symptom of whatever she's suffering from."

Peter shook his head. "Not this time. We noticed the resemblance too."

Neal retrieved his phone from his pants pocket and began scrolling through photos. "Dean's the same build and height. If he styled his hair the same way, they could trade places." He passed his phone to Sam. "What do you think?"

Sam grinned. "You could be twins." He handed Dean the phone.

"That guy?" He scowled and took a closer look. "Man, that's freaky. Where does he live?"

"New York City. His apartment isn't far from the Federal Building. Next time you're in town, I'll introduce you." Neal's expression grew serious. "This could be the only rational remark Angela's made since Thursday."

"Will Michael be able to keep her from seeing Lutar tonight?" Sam asked.

"He plans to," Neal confirmed. "There's a French bistro in town he plans to take her to. Michael knows the importance of keeping an eye on her. He's not going to let her wander off like she did this morning."

Peter bit into his meat loaf sandwich. Sam had been sorely tempted by the beef, bacon, Cheddar, and caramelized onion masterpiece. Surely they'd need to stay around at least one more day?

Washing it down with a glug of beer, Peter said, "I looked into Lutar. He has a dual citizenship. His mother was Welsh, his father from West Virginia. His family, the Garringtons, have deep roots in this region. They made a fortune from coal in the nineteenth century. Lutar's parents are both deceased. He moved to Shepherdstown last month after graduating from the University of Wales. There's limited information about him since he's not suspected of any crimes. There are no FBI or Interpol files about him."

"Lutar owns an estate on the Potomac River north of town," Neal added. "It must be quite a place. Angela described it as a castle."

"That fits the pattern of a pure-blood," Sam said. "You remember that Irish friend of Bobby's—Finnerty? He said they act like country lords, establishing miniature kingdoms, all in service of Astrena, their queen."

"If Lutar's a vampire and has made Shepherdstown his fiefdom, wouldn't he have other vampires living with him in the castle?" Neal asked.

"Probably," Dean said, "unless he considers himself above them. But Lutar isn't acting like any vampire we've come across. The publicity he seems to crave is the last thing a home-grown fang wants. It's another mark against him being one."

"Up to a few months ago we rarely came across vampires," Sam added. "In the States, their nests are small. They stay off the radar of law enforcement agencies by preying on the homeless and drifters."

Peter turned to Neal. "You see, they agree with me. Angela's probably crushing on a musician. It's heartbreaking for Michael, but it's not demonic."

Neal's lips tightened, but he didn't dispute the point.

"As long as we're here, we'll check out his estate," Dean offered. "Bobby's trying to rustle up a local hunter for us to talk to. So far, the only thing you could charge Lutar with is making himself irresistible to women. Hardly a crime."

"And nothing I can get a warrant for," Peter pointed out. "I ran a check in D.C., and there have been no suspicious murders or reports of missing persons. Those people you interviewed this afternoon—do you have a list of names?"

Sam retrieved his notepad from his denim jacket pocket and handed it to him. As Peter read through the names, his brow furrowed.

"What do you see?" Neal asked.

Peter reached down for his laptop. "I knew there was a reason to bring this along tonight." He powered it on and after a few minutes swung it around for the others to see. "Several of the names correspond to victims of identity fraud. Have you had any reports of demons running fraud operations?"

Dean looked as perplexed as Sam felt. "Corporate fraud is not our home turf," Sam said, speaking for both of them. "We deal with murders and mutilations, not finance scams."

Sam felt uncomfortable talking about identity fraud with Peter. The only credit cards he and Dean owned were fake ones. Was that the reason Neal and Peter always picked up the tab when they were at a restaurant?

Long ago, Sam had rationalized a justification to soothe his conscience. Since no one paid them for killing monsters, fake credit cards were the only means left to them to pay their expenses. Peter might even agree privately with their reasoning, although he never could publicly. Still, something to keep in mind. Dean exchanged quick looks with him. He was thinking the same thing.

Neal seized on the news to make the case for a connection between pure-bloods and money fraud. "Your hunter friend in England says pure-bloods live like nobility. Where are they getting their money?" He raised an eyebrow at Peter, challenging him for an answer.

Peter took a long breath before replying. "This doesn't explain what's happened to Angela, but this is beginning to have the earmarks of a white-collar crime. I can justify spending another day here. Lutar Garrington is a big unknown to the FBI, and that in itself raises questions. What's his background? The fact that so many participants in his workshop are also identity fraud victims warrants investigation."

"Thanks," Neal said, his face relaxing a little. "It makes me wonder though . . . If Lutar's mixed up in the scheme, why hasn't Angela been a victim?"

"I'll run a credit check on her as well," Peter offered. "What have you told Michael?"

"I've led him to believe that I suspect a new designer drug has hit the market. Under the circumstances, that seemed the safest. I told him Lutar or someone else could be sneaking it into drinks without the victim being aware of it."

"That sounds good," Dean agreed. "It will give him extra incentive to keep a close watch on her, although from what you've said, I don't think he needs it. Sam and I'll patrol the area tonight, keep an eye out for Crowley, and check out Lutar's castle." He quickly added as Peter began to interrupt. "We won't attempt to enter it."

"Neal, you and Michael were going to keep Angela busy with the play tomorrow," Peter said. "No reason not to stick with the plan. I'll work the fraud connection in D.C."

 **House in the Woods, New Haven, Connecticut. That same evening.**

Electra had just settled down on the velvet sofa for a quiet evening of perusing the latest issue of _Art in America_ when Crowley materialized in the middle of the salon. Regretfully she set down her glass of blood after taking a quick sip. The sample had arrived in the morning shipment from New York City. A young violinist with great promise. Electra had never been one to focus on only one protégé at a time.

"You have news from Shepherdstown?"

He nodded. "We have a rodent infestation on our hands. Do you want me to call the exterminators?" Electra iced him with a glance to remind him who he was dealing with. "The Winchesters are in town," he amended. "I spotted the moose and squirrel having lunch."

"Was Neal with them?"

"Yes, Radiant One. And I confirmed Burke's in town too."

Electra stood up and strode to the entrance to the library. Maia's paper would have to wait. "You need to hear this too," she ordered her sister. Maia rose immediately from her laptop and followed her back into the salon. Electra glanced at her Bohemian attire and bare feet and sighed. Still playing a peasant. Electra had been tolerant of Maia's infatuation with Sam but she was carrying it to an extreme. Perhaps Electra should take Crowley up on that extermination. She couldn't remember when Maia had fallen so hard. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Artists were meant to fall in love with _them_ , not the reverse. They were above love with mortals.

For a moment the image of Maia when she was an urchin in a filthy hut in Connacht formed in her mind. Electra had long been intrigued by reports of the druids. When Julius Caesar invaded Britain, she saw no reason not to satisfy her own curiosity about Ireland. Maia was wild and unruly, but her mother was revered as a druidess of great power. Electra had brought Maia back to Greece to mold her—first as a handmaiden, then a sister. After all these centuries, could Maia be reverting to her roots? Surely that was impossible. But she'd bear watching.

Electra ordered Crowley to repeat what he'd discovered.

"Did you know Sam was in Shepherdstown?" she demanded.

Maia's face grew pale. She knew the danger he ran. "I haven't heard from him in a few days," she admitted.

"I ordered you to use a locator potion."

She shrugged helplessly. "I wanted to but I couldn't. The potion requires horned orchids, and they're not in bloom."

Was that just an excuse? Electra stilled her anger for the moment and turned to Crowley. "Do you know why the hunters are in town?"

"I can hazard a guess. Your prince has taken an interest in a certain Angela Caffrey. Name sound familiar?"

Electra stared at him. "Neal's sister?"

"I thought so at first. She's his cousin. The fang I've been using to spy on them talked with some of her friends. Her boyfriend is in town. He's none too thrilled that his squeeze has been charmed. Lutar's laid a rather heavy dose on her, I gather."

After Crowley left, Electra turned to Maia. "No one must harm Lutar. You know that." She didn't need to spell it out for her. Maia was well aware that Electra had drunk Sam's blood as well as Neal's. Once blood had been sampled, Electra could enter Sam's mind whenever she chose and she could snuff him out whenever she wished.

* * *

 _Notes: Next week, Angela's not the only one who is the focus of concern. Illness causes a change in plans and Electra pays a visit to Shepherdstown._

 _Julius Caesar's invasion of Britain in 55 BC is well documented. Electra's visit to Ireland is less well known, but the ancient Greeks were familiar with Ireland. Druids and Celts were referenced in their writings. Connacht is a province in western Ireland with numerous archaeological sites dating back to the Neolithic._

 _Henry's been petitioning to be included in the Crossed Lines series, particularly since his cousin Angela has now made an appearance. His situation is more complicated since Jensen Ackles, the actor cast to be Henry, also plays Dean on Supernatural. I've written about Henry for our blog in a post called "Doppelganger Dilemma." Thanks to KeJae for providing helpful advice on how she handles a similar situation in her stories. KeJae writes crossovers of White Collar and Chuck. Matt Bomer appears in both series, and she's written many creative stories to take advantage of his dual roles._

 _Thanks for reading and your comments!_

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	5. Lady Angela

**Chapter 5: Lady Angela**

 **Thomas Shepherd Inn. August 2, 2005. Tuesday night.**

"Not again," Dean groaned.

He lifted his head and focused bleary eyes on the alarm clock. "It's four o'clock in the morning, dude. You've already hurled for hours. Give it a rest."

The only response was the sound of Sam retching in the bathroom. Dean sat up and rubbed his forehead. He couldn't remember when Sam had been so sick. The one glimmer of consolation to his misery was that the room they were staying in, courtesy of Neal, was much higher quality than their normal dive. Sam could be sick in luxury.

Dean's first thought was food poisoning, but they'd both had the same food at dinner—chubby burgers with bacon—and Dean felt fine. Although that weird French cheese had been suspicious. Who puts Brie on a burger? When Dean asked if that could be the cause, Sam's answer was to rush back to the bathroom.

Dean sat slouched on the side of the bed until Sam dragged his ass out of his new favorite room and crashed onto the adjoining bed. His face was paler than the last five ghosts they'd gotten rid of.

When Dean pressed his hand onto his sweaty forehead, Sam jerked back as if he were a demon.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

"Shut up before I slug you. You're running a fever like hell fires are licking at you."

"Just kill me now," he groaned. "If I'm lucky, I'll wind up in Purgatory instead."

"I'm sorry if my bedside manner doesn't match Maia's. You want me to call her?"

He looked at him, horror-stricken. "What? See me like this?" Sam covered his head with his pillow, but that didn't stop him from mumbling, "Leave her out of it. It's a good thing I turned down her invitation. I—" He tossed the pillow onto the floor, and, swallowing convulsively, staggered back to the bathroom.

Dean let out a sigh that only another selfless older brother could fully appreciate. Food poisoning or flu—whatever it was—after a night of agony for both of them, Sam would probably be okay.

Dean eyed his bed. Should he even attempt to sleep? Sam's laptop was on the nightstand. He'd left it on. No doubt he was checking for tips on how to stop the hurls which didn't involve shooting himself. Plainly he hadn't found any.

Dean got up to turn it off. They'd returned to their room around midnight. Sam had checked his laptop for messages. By the dopey smile on his face, Dean knew he'd gotten one from Maia. When Dean teased him about it, Sam admitted she'd invited him to New Haven. Some bigshot was coming to town in a couple of days for a poetry reading. Sam seemed interested. If they hadn't made the commitment to Neal, he might have agreed. She'd even offered to meet him at the train station or airport.

An hour later Sam was too sick to go anywhere. Dean would be on his own tomorrow, but he wasn't worried. By their standards, this was a minor case. If Neal hadn't called for help, they wouldn't have bothered with it.

By the time the sun came up, Dean had squeezed in a couple of hours of shuteye. Sam had worn himself out and was dead to the world. His fever seemed a little less, but it was obvious that, barring a miracle, he wouldn't be worth diddly-squat for the rest of the day.

Over breakfast, Dean gave the health report to Peter and Neal. The inn's breakfasts were several grades above his usual fare. He plowed into the eggs, bacon, biscuits, and sausage gravy with enthusiasm. There was nothing wrong with his appetite, and he needed to eat extra to avoid catching the same plague.

"A friend of mine came down with something similar last weekend," Neal said. "It took her two days to get over it."

"Sam will snap out of it," Dean predicted. The Winchesters didn't get sick. They didn't have time for it. "In any case, we didn't find anything last night. We went by Lutar's house, and Michael's report was correct. It does look like a castle. With an estate right on the Potomac, Lutar's not suffering for funds. There's a fence around the place. Security looks tight. We kept watch for a while but didn't spot any suspicious activity."

Peter planned to spend the day in D.C. Neal would babysit Angela. Dean would check around for any signs of Crowley or the witch. With no unexplained murders on the books, he doubted he'd find anything. Bobby had located a hunter in Maryland. If there were any vampires around, he should know.

By the next day Sam should be well enough for them to leave. A bunch of women acting besotted over a musician didn't rise to their standard. Bobby had called in a much more serious report coming out of a town in Massachusetts. During the past week, a doctor and a nurse had been killed in separate incidents. Both worked at the Taunton State Hospital. Bobby said that the facility dated back to the 1850s, and there had been persistent rumors of malignant ghosts. Apparently one had gone deadly.

As far as Neal's cousin, Dean's best advice was to take her back to New York City. If the feds did find Crowley, he and Sam could return. But there was no point in hanging around for a what-if.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Electra materialized in Lutar's living room, the morning sun was shining brightly through the windows. Crowley had told her seven other vampires lived with him, but no one appeared awake. Electra glanced around the Gothic furnishings and dark Victorian furniture. There was even a suit of armor displayed on a stand in the corner. Crowley must have picked it out. His tastes in decorating appeared to be based on an addiction to old horror movies. She'd have to encourage Lutar to call in an interior decorator.

Still the manor had good bones. She approved of the stone walls. The sweeping staircase with its crimson carpet added a suitably dramatic touch.

She headed upstairs to Lutar's bedroom and found him sprawled face down, asleep, on a massive Tudor-style bed. The room was all in black with black satin sheets and embossed black wallpaper. The black candles were overkill. He'd also hung far too many mirrors in ornate frames. Was he deliberately trying to prove that the myth of vampires not being seen in mirrors was false? Or perhaps he simply wanted to admire himself. And as Electra gazed at his nude body, she couldn't help but be satisfied with her handiwork.

She noted the dark violet glass bottles on his dressing table. They were designed to be discreet, and from what Crowley said, Lutar was making ample use of them. A few drops of the precious liquid and Lutar was able to establish a link with his victims which would last for days. She gave to all her pure-bloods the gift of bending others to their will. Was he abusing it?

She sat down on the edge of the bed beside him and lightly stroked his golden hair. Her darling boy. She loved all her princes, but Lutar most of all. For this generation, she'd endowed them with music ability. In the case of Lutar, she'd reached back to one of her favorite periods, the Tudor era in England. Hammered dulcimers were at the height of popularity. With the talent Lutar possessed, a new revival wouldn't take long to happen.

Lutar stirred and looked up, his lips curving into a smile. "Mother! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He rolled onto one side and propped his elbow on the bed.

Electra stood up to retrieve the black silk robe draped over the chair. She tossed it to him. "Your house is cold." He stood up and put it on, tying it loosely. It did little to cover the perfection of his limbs. "Crowley has been to see me. He's quite pleased, as am I, on your financial transactions."

He acknowledged her approval with a nod. "The hackers he supplied me with have made excellent thralls."

"You encountered no difficulties in turning them?"

"None at all. It was if they were born to be fangs."

She sat down on the loveseat and beckoned him to sit next to her. "I hear you've charmed many of the locals."

"Naturally."

"Tell me about one in particular—Angela Caffrey." She watched him carefully for his expression.

He smiled. "She was an unexpected prize. She's well named. She sings and plays the dulcimer like an angel. She looks like one too." His eyes showed the hunger within him as he added, "She'll make the ideal consort."

"First appearances can be deceptive." She paused to consider him for a moment. He was so young. How best to phrase it that he would understand? "You've been on Earth for only a little over a month. You should take your time before choosing anyone. I regret that Angela is not suitable."

"Why not? You should at least meet her. When you do, I bet you'll want her to be a sister."

Did he realize what he was requesting? "My darling, your fondness for her is hardly sufficient grounds for me to elevate her."

"You should meet her before making a decision," he insisted.

Electra hesitated. She found it difficult to deny him anything. She hadn't created another sister in ages. For a moment she toyed with the idea. Neal's cousin as a sister? No, impossible. Eventually she'd discover Electra was feeding on Neal, and her mind would be forever poisoned. "Angela has connections to hunters and to the FBI. If you attempt to steal her away, you'll incur the wrath of powerful forces."

"They're frail mortals. Why should I worry?"

"Because you're not indestructible either. You haven't learned to fear hunters, but you should. On this matter I must insist. Leave her alone. You have a rich supply of musically talented women to choose from, any one of whom would make a far worthier prize." Was any of this sinking in? His face had become a mask to her. Who was this Angela that she'd already cast such a spell on him? She deepened her voice. "You will obey me."

"Of course, mother."

His eyes were veiled. Would he heed her advice? His desire for Angela was strong and could outweigh any other consideration. She'd enlist Maia's help in finding someone else. Yale must have plenty of suitable women, any one of whom would satisfy his craving without arousing suspicions. It would be far better to have Lutar's mate be one of Electra's choosing, one whose blood she'd first sampled. Then she'd be easier to control.

She could tell from her caress that Lutar had not yet had sex with Angela. He claimed he would resist, but Electra was by no means convinced. If he disobeyed her, the consequences would be far-reaching. Electra saw no need to take the risk. She was glad she'd brought along the potion.

When she poured the glass of blood from the decanter, Lutar was dressing. He didn't notice the drops of clear liquid she added to the glass. He'd be impotent for several days. Enough time for her to supply him with someone of her choice. As for Angela . . . A measure of extra insurance was warranted. Electra reached deep into Lutar's mind. What she gave she could take away. With one focused thought she severed his ability to link to his victims. It would take a day for them to recover, but surely nothing could happen in one day. She'd been overly indulgent with Lutar. He wasn't ready for the power she'd given him. Once he was more mature, she'd restore his abilities.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal awoke early on Thursday morning after a fitful sleep. His concern for Angela, combined with frustration over not being able to help her, doomed any effort to rest to failure. He went ahead and dressed. There were no coffeemakers in the rooms, but Edith kept the one in the dining room always supplied.

He could hear her in the kitchen bustling about with breakfast preparations as he poured himself a cup. Apparently he was the first guest up. Neal went outside to sit in one of the rockers on the back patio. When Peter came downstairs, he'd probably recommend that it was time to leave. How would Neal respond?

The previous day had been a waste. Was there any reason to think today would go differently? Dean said he should take Angela back to New York, but she'd never been the type to meekly follow orders. Michael hadn't even been able to convince her to have lunch with him yesterday. And how could she abandon her students on the eve of their performance? She'd receive failing marks for her field work project midstream.

Angela was growing more annoyed with his and Michael's hovering by the minute. They'd survived the morning rehearsal with the kids without any flare-ups, but she'd left immediately afterward to see Lutar. Another rehearsal was the excuse she provided. When Michael tried to reason with her, she blew up at him. The argument became so heated and personal, Neal left to stand in the hallway. When she stormed out of the room a few minutes later, she wouldn't even stop to talk to him.

They eventually tracked her down in a practice room in the music department. Angela glared when they entered but didn't raise any objections. Under the circumstances, Neal decided the best policy was to ignore her. He focused his attention instead on Lutar.

Neal reasoned the dulcimer would be a safe subject and one that would engage Lutar. Much of early Appalachian music in the 1700s was based on Celtic music and there were still strong similarities. Neal and Angela had distant relatives who made their living as musicians at Renaissance fairs and as instrument makers. As Neal and Michael told Lutar about the Celtic fusion band they'd performed in last year, Angela gradually relaxed. Michael and Neal were careful not to bring up anything personal.

Lutar was eager to take the dulcimer mainstream and incorporate it into rock music, reviving a trend that was popular in the '60s. He asked Angela to play a song Joni Mitchell had performed with a mountain dulcimer, "A Case of You," and Lutar reciprocated with a Rolling Stones tune which featured the dulcimer. When he sang "Lady Jane," he only had eyes for Angela and she for him. He wasn't singing Lady Jane, he was singing Lady Angela.

As Neal observed them, his doubts resurfaced. Perhaps Angela had simply found someone more desirable. She and Lutar shared a love of music. They both had enough talent to be stars. Looking at Michael's devastated face, Neal suspected he was thinking the same thing. Angela had cast him off. They might have reached the point of no return.

When Neal arrived in town, Angela could have suspected Michael had called him. She likely resented Neal's interference. Neal could relate. He'd chafed when others tried to influence his love life.

Peter had spent the previous day researching the backgrounds of the identity theft victims and consulting with Jones in New York and Max Ganesh in D.C. The prevalence of so many cases in a small town suggested a local was responsible, and perhaps Lutar was involved, but this wasn't Peter's jurisdiction.

Jones had looked into Lutar. His home had been purchased by Nesarat Holdings, a British firm which handled investments for the trust which had been established for him. Jones wasn't familiar with the firm but according to the listing services it had a spotless reputation.

"Would you like some company?" Peter asked, walking out on the patio.

Neal looked up and nodded. "It's peaceful here." Not like New York where there's always the rumble of trucks and cars. Edith had placed several bird feeders in the back garden and the perches were filled with the early morning arrivals.

Peter sat down in a cane rocker beside him. "I wish El could have joined us. She would have loved the restaurant last night."

He and Peter had gone to a French bistro in town last night. Over pepper steak for Peter and duck with root vegetables for Neal, they'd reviewed the situation. Peter was anxious to return to work. The con was scheduled to begin soon. Peter's mention of Elizabeth was another subtle hint that it was time to go. Neal didn't want to leave Angela, but what good could he hope to accomplish? If he warned her of their suspicions of Lutar's involvement with an identity fraud ring, she'd accuse him of slandering his character.

"Any word from Dean?" Peter asked.

"No, he was still out when we returned from dinner. I visited Sam. Edith had taken him some soup and ice cream and he looked a little better. He said he'd slept most of the day. Maia called while I was there to check on him."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean rolled out of bed and glanced over at Sam. A night without hurling—the simple pleasures in life. Sam had to be feeling better. He wasn't running a fever when Dean returned.

Sam was asleep now, but the book of poetry Dean had found in his duffel bag was lying open next to him. It wasn't there when Dean went to bed.

Curious to see what he'd been reading during the night, Dean got up and retrieved it. Poetry had never been his thing, and he hadn't heard of Langston Hughes. The book was open to a poem called "The Dream Keeper." Dean scanned it. Huh . . . The poem mentioned bringing your dreams, your heart melodies. Didn't sound like the Sam he knew.

There was a sheet of notepaper tucked into the book. Dean opened it to find Sam's scrawl. A few phrases which didn't make much sense. What was Sam turning into? The first poet-hunter? Well, this was one poet-hunter who was out of it. By the peaceful expression on his face, he was enjoying some heart dreams of his own.

Dean kept the noise level to the minimum while he dressed.

He found Neal and Peter having coffee on the porch. They went into the dining room together. It was early and they had the room to themselves. Edith took their orders. She returned to the kitchen after bringing them a large basket of fresh muffins and sweet rolls.

While they waited for their eggs and grits, Dean filled them in on the previous day's hunt. "Looks like you may have lucked into something, although I know you're not feeling particularly lucky at the moment."

Neal's mouth dropped open. "I was right? We'd about convinced ourselves there wasn't anything to investigate."

"And that's why you need to leave it to the professionals. I hooked up with Bobby's friend. Randy's been hunting demons in these parts for years. He'd heard rumors of a nest that was abandoned a few months ago about fifty miles west of here and we decided to check it out. Took us a while but we finally scrounged up one lone vamp hiding in a hunter's shack in the woods. He took off when we found him." Dean paused to take a swig of freshly squeezed orange juice. "The fang led us on quite a chase. We finally cornered him near Berkeley Springs and were able to convince him it would be to his benefit to talk."

"What kind of persuasion can you use on a vampire?" Peter asked. "I'm not challenging you, just curious."

How much detail could they stomach? Dean had worked three jobs with them, but the gore factor had been minimal. They only had a sketchy understanding of what his normal jobs were like. "Let's leave it that there are various ways of killing, some much more painful than others. The vamp knew what was in store for him, but he was like everyone else. If your number's up, you want it to be quick."

Peter nodded slowly. "I understand," and judging by his expression, he did. Papa Bear Burke . . . Dean had been joking when he gave him that name, but he'd grown to appreciate why Peter was such a good leader. He cared for the people working for him like they were family, and now, through a crazy quirk of fate, he included Dean and Sam in that circle. It was a good feeling.

"The vamp—his name was Clarence—said that a couple of months ago they'd gotten word of a new leadership. Before then, there really hadn't been any organization. Nests were few and scattered. Each did pretty much his own thing. In June they were ordered to report to New Jersey . . . to Jenny Jump State Park."

No one spoke while their hostess set down the breakfast plates, but Dean knew what they were thinking. That park had been the site of the summer solstice ritual when the pure-bloods arrived.

After she left, Dean continued, "Clarence told us they escorted a prince down to Shepherdstown. The guy calls himself Lutar." At Neal's exclamation, Dean gave them a moment to let it sink in. "Instead of rewarding the nest for their help, he brought in a new lot. Cleaning up the language a bit, Clarence called them snotty-nosed college kids. Supposedly they're whizzes on the computer. Lutar's new regime didn't go over well with the old crowd. Instead of hack and slash, they were ordered to drain off only enough blood to live on but leave the victims alive. Not only that, they were supposed to do it in such a way that their vics remained unaware of what had happened to them."

"You mean like a vampire mugging?" Peter asked, looking startled. "Is that possible?"

"Sure," he said, scooping eggs onto his fork. "Suppose you got knocked out while walking to your car. In the darkness, you didn't see who struck you. You'd wake up with a gash on your arm. You wouldn't realize you'd provided someone's dinner. The new objective is to avoid exposure at all costs. That's why we haven't been hearing any reports about vampire attacks."

"So Clarence's nest was abandoned because they moved to Lutar's castle?" Neal prompted.

"Just the opposite. Instead of being enchanted with their new prince, the old vamps have drifted away, demoralized. They lack the skills their new master wants, and he's not provided them any incentive to stay. Frankly, this sounds more like your turf than mine. Clarence bemoaned the fact that instead of robbing victims, they're hacking credit card accounts. He misses the good old days. Hunters don't bother with identity fraud cases, even if fangs are behind them. What gives me pause is that I wouldn't give a rat's ass for them being able to adhere to the new program. Can they control their blood lust? No matter how they try to disguise it, they're still monsters."

"Have the new vampires moved in with Lutar?" Peter asked.

Dean shook his head. "He didn't think so. Claimed Lutar was too stuck up to want his minions on the premises. Instead they're holed up somewhere outside Hagerstown, Maryland. After we finished with Clarence, Randy headed south for a job in Tennessee. I offered to help him find the nest when he returns."

Peter scratched the back of his neck. "I'll check for crime reports from Hagerstown . . . Any ideas on how I can present any of the evidence from a vampire who is now presumably deceased"—he glanced at Dean who nodded confirmation—"and inform the Bureau that a pure-blood vampire is responsible for the ID frauds?"

Dean shrugged. "You're the G-man. That's your problem."

Neal didn't say anything. He was probably trying to figure out how to tell his cousin to stay away from Lutar without revealing the existence of vampires.

Neal's phone vibrated as they were finishing breakfast. From the sound of it, Michael was on the other end and, judging by Neal's expression, the news wasn't good. A few months ago they'd had a job with a witch who used tarot cards to perform magic. From the look of Neal's face, he'd just been dealt the devil card.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal ended the call and tuned out the others' questions. Raw nausea was twisting his stomach in two. Was she in bed with him right now? A vampire?

"Neal!" Peter's tone had sharpened to the point Neal couldn't delay any longer. "What happened?"

"When Michael woke up, he discovered that Angela was no longer there. She'd left during the night and taken a suitcase of clothes with her. He found a note on her pillow. She wrote that she was moving in with Lutar and that Michael should return to New York."

Peter cursed under his breath. "Any signs of a struggle?" They'd all been speaking in undertones, but Peter's voice still sounded rough.

"None. They returned to her apartment after dinner and watched a movie. Angela was moody. Michael suspects she was making her plans during the movie. She could have packed her bag when he was taking his shower."

"I heard you tell him to come over," Peter said.

"Yeah, he's bringing the note. He said it looked authentic to him, but wants me to take a look."

Dean grimaced. "Lutar must have given her the idea. If she's acting under his influence, she thinks it was her decision."

Rubbing his forehead, Peter turned to Dean. "Do you think he's feeding off her?" The look on his face brought back the feeling of terror Neal had felt when he and Sam were held captive by vampires. Was Angela now tied up, her blood being siphoned off?

Dean shook his head slowly. "If Lutar was a normal vampire, I'd say the odds aren't in her favor, but this guy's not your run-of-the-mill fang. He craves recognition. Hell, he and Angela are scheduled to perform in a concert this weekend. I bet he's not gonna do anything to sabotage his moment in the spotlight."

"You make a good point," Peter agreed. "He thinks scouts for NPR will be there, maybe reps from music companies."

Neal swallowed, hesitating to voice his worst fear. "He might not be feeding off her, but would he have turned her?"

Dean grimaced. "You know I can't give you any guarantees." His lips tightening, he thought for a moment. "It's likely he wants to, but that concert may force him to put his plans on hold. Once someone is turned, they have an uncontrollable hunger for the first few weeks. I can't picture Angela being in any kind of shape to perform in a concert in two days. Lutar knows that."

"There's also her work with the kids," Neal said, hoping he wasn't simply clutching at straws. "Lutar's appeared to take a genuine interest in it. He's just gone to the trouble to set himself up in this town. If he's smart he wants to avoid any appearance of scandal."

"In a couple of hours the kids will show up for rehearsal," Peter said. "You'll be able to talk sense into her. Perhaps I could dream up a way of having her arrested. Maybe suspicion of drug possession?"

"That won't work. There's no class scheduled on Thursday." Michael would be here in a few minutes. How much to tell him was on everyone's minds as they quickly finished breakfast. Edith's delicious food had no appeal but Neal forced some of it down. He still held out hope Angela would never have to know there really were vampires in the world. As far as Michael was concerned, they decided to continue to act as if she was being drugged or even hypnotized. Either one could be true. Dean had run into monsters who made use of hypnosis.

When Michael arrived, they commandeered the lounge at the far end of the house which was deserted this time of day. Michael hadn't bothered to shave. He'd already convinced himself Angela had been subjected to mood-altering drugs. Looking at him forced Neal to shove his own fears to the side. Michael was already on the edge of losing it. If he realized the true peril she was in, he might not be able to function. And Neal needed his skill for the plan he was working on.

Like the rest of the rooms, the lounge was decorated with Federal-style antiques and nineteenth century prints. Dean and Peter pulled up two chairs that could have come out of the workshop of Duncan Phyfe and made a tight group around the arched-back sofa and cocktail table.

"I wish I could say her handwriting's forged," Neal said, studying the note one more time, "but it looks genuine."

"We can't wait around to see if she'll show up for tomorrow's class," Michael said, clenching his hand into a fist. "No telling what Lutar's . . ." He stopped abruptly, but Neal knew what he was thinking. "I'm going to his place and demand to speak with her."

"It won't accomplish anything," Dean warned. "He'll just tell you she's not there. If you insist on searching for her, he could have you arrested."

Michael's jaw hardened. "There _has_ to be a something we can do."

Michael thought he could strong-arm his way into the estate and rescue Angela. That wasn't about to happen. What they needed was a fox instead.

During the American Revolution, Francis Marion had used guerilla tactics against the British, earning himself the sobriquet of the Swamp Fox. Neal had acted as a fox once before against vampires when he led them away from two kids at astro camp. This time his mission was more critical. Whether or not she realized it, Angela was already a prisoner.

Peter had brought his laptop downstairs. He pulled up a map showing the estate's location. "Neal, what's this idea you want to present?"

Neal hesitated. Peter was used to his schemes. How would Dean react? "It's going to sound a little crazy," he cautioned.

Dean shrugged. "I can do crazy."

Peter frowned at Dean. "Don't encourage him. Neal's normal mode is crazy. When he admits it in advance, watch out."

Neal sailed right past his warning buoy. "It's agreed we need to get into the house to find out if Angela is there. Our challenge is to conduct a search without Lutar's knowledge."

"—an illegal maneuver," Peter couldn't resist pointing out, "but we'll deal with that later. Go on."

Neal felt like saying _and vampires aren't supposed to exist either_ , but he couldn't in front of Michael. "Peter has an advantage that the rest of us don't. Lutar's never met him. We can use that. Lutar already believes Dean is an NPR producer. Dean should call him and ask for an appointment to meet with him." Neal turned to Dean. "You can tell him your director from New York is interested in preparing a segment specifically on Lutar and the revival of the dulcimer. The way he acted at the rehearsal, he'll jump at the bait to increase his fame. Could you sell it?" Neal didn't know how good Dean was at cons. They used fake IDs all the time, but generally he played a law enforcement agent.

Dean didn't slam down his idea immediately—a promising sign. "I'm no good at using NPR lingo but I could work the rock angle for hours. When Sam and I talked with Lutar on Tuesday, he was especially interested in blending hard rock with the dulcimer. That proved to me he's certifiable, but you may not be able to have him committed strictly on that." He eyed Peter warily. "What about you?"

"Stick with classic rock, and I'll be fine. I can also discuss contract terms."

"You can channel your inner Led Zeppelin, your Mick Jagger," Neal suggested to Peter. "I'll help with your wardrobe. You'll be an ex-musician working for NPR—"

"I get the point," Peter interrupted in a low rumble.

"But how is this going to help?" Michael said, giving an exasperated huff. "So what if they meet with Lutar? If they ask him about Angela, he'll deny any knowledge of her."

Michael's patience was at low ebb. He was the one they needed to worry about doing something crazy, not Neal. What Michael needed was an assignment to focus on. "They're providing the diversion. You and I will have canoed up to his estate."

When Michael's eyes lit up, Neal jumped in to outline his plan before Peter let loose the thundercloud which was already gathering on his face. "While they're talking to Lutar, I'll sneak into his house and find out if Angela's there. I bet I'll be able to convince her to come with me. Last resort, I can threaten telling her mother and grandparents. Even a drugged Angela won't want to face their accumulated wrath. Then we'll take her back to town in the canoe. Lutar won't know about it till it's too late. Once she's in the clear, we can take care of the odds and ends."

Michael may have been enthusiastic, but Dean's reaction was more amusement than anything else. He didn't know Neal was a cat burglar. He was going to steal Lutar's treasure and bring Angela home.

As for Peter, flashes of lightning were coming out of that hovering thundercloud. Michael's presence was tempering his reaction but Neal couldn't hold him off forever. Did the Swamp Fox also have to deal with uncooperative generals?

"Have you taken into account that Lutar might not be alone in that house? He could have . . . um . . . associates staying there."

"Dean's friend told him the fraud syndicate was being handled in Maryland."

"Based on a witness with unreliable credentials," Peter retorted.

"And that's precisely why I have to sneak in," Neal explained calmly. "One person has a much better chance of escaping detection."

"The house is not far from the water's edge," Michael said, providing welcome support. "The riverfront is heavily wooded in that section."

"That will provide the cover I need. Michael, you and I can go boating this morning and check it out. I'll take my binoculars along. Anyone who sees us will think we're birdwatchers." Neal was glad Michael didn't ask how he'd get into the house. He didn't want to be forced to explain his lock-picking expertise.

Dean had kept quiet during the exchange but Neal noticed how he'd been eyeing Peter as if to assess his reaction. Standing up abruptly, Dean jerked his head toward the porch. "Michael, you and me, outside. I want to hear more about the canoe you'll use. The two of them need to bang their heads together and hash out the details."

Peter nodded his appreciation at Dean, and Neal was relieved too. Peter's fuse was burning fast. Better that only Neal got singed.

* * *

 _Notes: Neal can be very persuasive. I'd say the odds are high for him convincing Peter to go along with the plan. But, as usually happens, they may find more than they bargained for at Lutar's castle.  
_

 _Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones owned and played an Appalachian dulcimer. It was used in "Lady Jane," "I Am Waiting," and other pieces in the late '60s. Joni Mitchell also played an Appalachian dulcimer. Her song "A Case of You" is pinned to the Pinterest board along with "Lady Jane."_

 _Thanks to Mysteryfan17 for telling me about Taunton, Massachusetts. The town is part of the Bridgewater Triangle, an area famous for paranormal occurrences. The Taunton State Hospital is reputedly America's most haunted asylum. Taunton has not made its last appearance in Crossed Lines. It's also close to Arkham and Diana has taken note of it for Arkham Files._

 _St. Patrick's Day will soon be upon us. Penna and I have enjoyed adding an Irish connection to our AU and I'm now expanding it to this series. I've written about Neal's Irish roots for the blog in a post called "The Celtic Connection." Penna also wrote a post for St. Patrick's Day—"Happy St. Patrick's Day from the Caffrey Conversation Crew!"—where she explains the origin of the Irish thread in Caffrey Conversation and some of her inspirations. Wishing all of you the luck of the Irish!_

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	6. Swamp Fox

**Chapter 6: Swamp Fox**

 **Shepherdstown. Thursday, August 4, 2005.**

When Dean suggested he and Michael go outside, it was to give Peter and Neal some space. It was plain Peter's growls were bubbling to the top. Dean didn't blame him. Neal sneaking into a vamp's mansion had to be chalked up as one of the looniest ideas he'd ever heard. Did he know how to pick a lock or did he think he could just break a window, waltz in, and retrieve his cousin?

If Sam were healthy, they would have had a go at it, but Sam was nowhere near ready. As long as he stayed flat on his back, he no longer felt like roadkill. But whenever he tried to stand up, he was so dizzy he could barely make it to the can without tripping over his feet. Luckily his fever was down. Otherwise Dean would have hauled his ass to emergency care.

Assuming the fang Clarence was right, Lutar was a pure-blood. It was a cinch he wasn't living in that castle alone. Clarence said the other fangs had moved to a nest in Maryland, but Lutar could be employing locals as bodyguards.

Dean gave Neal points for cockiness even if it was misplaced. He also scored high marks for stupidity. Yes, Neal knew how to hustle pool and he could counterfeit some slick IDs. Did he know how to make himself invisible too?

Dean succeeded in calming Michael down by having him explain what canoeing the Potomac was like. Dean didn't expect Peter would agree to the scheme, but when Michael focused on the details of the canoe trip, he was doing a better job of keeping his anxiety under control. Soothing stressed victims was normally Sam's job. Dean intended to be paid back at the first opportunity.

Michael recommended they make a practice run on the river, and Dean agreed. The Potomac provided a good escape route. Maybe not for today, but later on when Dean had other hunters for backup. If the forces were overwhelming, they might all need to flee by canoe. It never hurt to have a contingency measure ready.

When Michael left to arrange for a boat rental, Dean went back inside to see if the bear had pummeled some sense into Neal.

Evidently not.

Peter had moved his chair close to Neal so he could bellow in an undertone without scaring the hotel guests having breakfast, "Why do you think I'd possibly agree to you sneaking into a manor on your own?" he growled at his cub, giving a quick nod at Dean when he pulled up a chair next to them. Dean suspected he was counting on him to lend his support.

"Because it's the only way that has a chance of success," Neal countered, keeping his voice low. His eyes were boring into Peter's with an intensity Dean had rarely seen him exhibit. "If we go in as a group with guns blazing it could be a slaughter—not only of us but Angela as well. We have to find out what kind of shape she's in, and I'm the best one for the job. You know that."

"But—"

"No buts. Not this time. You know we can't get a search warrant. No court would agree. We can keep in contact through text messages. The longer we wait, the better chance he could . . ." Neal paused and turned to Dean. "I'm right aren't I?"

Oh great, call on him to be moderator. "What makes you think you can avoid being detected?"

Neal broke into a half-smile, his first of the morning. For a guy that normally had a smile permanently slapped on his face, that was telling. "It's rumored that I used to be an expert cat burglar. Nothing ever proven, of course."

The light bulb lit up. Neal had been a thief. Now it made sense. Sam had mentioned how skilled Neal was at eluding capture in Buttonwood. Peter didn't contradict him that nothing was proven. Was that why Peter was tolerant of Dean and Sam's records? They weren't the only rogues he was used to dealing with.

"You know I want to rescue Angela," Peter told him, "but we can't wind up in a situation where we need to save you as well."

Neal turned to Dean. "If Sam were in that house, what would you do?"

"Go in by myself," Dean admitted. "From my perspective, our odds are a helluva lot better than what we normally have." These guys had already been around the block with him. He didn't need to remind them that beheading was the only way to kill vampires, but no one had any experience with what pure-bloods were capable of. Or how to kill them. "I'm willing to wager that Lutar doesn't want to risk exposure. He's establishing himself as a music rock star. Kidnapping and murder are not the kind of publicity he's looking for."

Neal looked at him gratefully as Peter's growls subsided. He seemed to be confident of Neal's sneak ability and that was good enough for Dean. Peter also realized they had to do something. Now they could set to work on improving those odds. But before that happened, there was one lurking monster in the room which demanded attention.

Dean grabbed that monster and shoved him in Neal's face. "What will you do if Lutar's already turned her?"

Neal winced. "You said that was unlikely."

"Yeah, and I still believe it, but you gotta be prepared."

"Dean's right," Peter agreed. "He made the case for why Lutar should wait to turn her, but lust has a nasty habit of overcoming rational thinking."

"Doesn't it take a while to work?" Neal asked.

"Yeah. The transformation isn't complete until she's drunk human blood." At that, Neal turned pea-soup green.

Peter took one look at him and asked, "If she's been turned, is there any way to bring her back?"

"None that I know of."

"What if she hasn't drunk any blood yet?" Neal asked, trying to find a straw to cling to.

"In that case, she could seem normal. She may not even know she's a vampire."

"But she would still have to be . . .?" Neal's hand slashed across his throat when the words wouldn't come out.

"Yeah."

They were all speaking quietly, but Neal's voice was dropping with each sentence. There was no way he'd be capable of handling that contingency. Dean voiced the obvious. "You can do your cat burglar thing to find her, but text me before you approach her. I'll make an excuse to leave the room and go find you." If there were any heads to be cut off, he'd have to be the one.

Neal looked at him with dismay. "And leave Peter alone with a pure-blood? That's not happening."

"How about those darts we used in New Jersey?" Peter asked. "The ones filled with dead man's blood. Could Neal use on those on her? That way, he could get her out of the house and we'd determine what was to be done later."

"Peter told me about the darts," Neal said, pouncing on the idea. "How long would she be paralyzed?"

"At least two hours. Angela's a fly-weight. She'd probably be out for three or more. Plenty of time for us to meet you and reassess."

"Any signs to watch out for?" Neal asked.

"Look for wounds. Vamps generally go for the neck or arms."

"What about if she and Lutar were intimate?" Peter asked.

"She might get an STD, but he couldn't turn her into a vampire that way." Dean hoped he was right. Who knew what pure-bloods were capable of? Neal was freaked out enough. There was no need to pile on Dean's own concerns. Neal was right that he stood the best chance to sneaking her out of the house. Angela trusted him. If anyone could talk her into leaving, it was him. "Personally, I'm willing to bet that Lutar hasn't turned her yet. He's a performer. He'd want to make some ceremony out of it, not when she's half asleep."

Peter eyed him warily. He probably thought Dean was being overly optimistic. And maybe he was. But there was a chance he was right. Be prepared for Armageddon, but don't complain if you wind up in Paradise instead. Neal was determined to make the attempt. He needed to know there was a chance she could be saved. And Dean had another trick up his sleeve which would help. He turned to Neal. "You'll need to mask your scent. Lutar's met you. He'll know if you're in the house."

"Do you have anything I can use? Please tell me it's not skunk cabbage."

Dean grinned. They'd used skunk cabbage in the New Jersey swamp for precisely that purpose. "You can thank Chloe that you don't have to go around smelling like roadkill. She prepared an oil laced with essence of trillium and some other flowers. I call it Fang No. 5. You splash some of it on and vamps won't be able to smell you."

A little of the tautness left Neal's face. "Score one for Chloe!" Even Peter smiled. Chloe's research into herbs was paying off big time.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Dean headed upstairs to check on Sam, Neal suggested to Peter they go out on the back porch. The ground floor was by now bustling with inn guests, and Neal needed to clear his thoughts of the nightmarish scenarios unfolding in his head.

He expected Peter would slam him yet again for the ridiculous notion that he could steal Angela away without arousing Lutar's suspicions and that Angela would agree to go with him. But Peter wasn't saying anything. The silent treatment was even worse. In Neal's head, he heard all the arguments Peter would make.

He stood at the edge of the patio and absently watched the cardinals hunt for seeds underneath the feeders. If they went forward, the risk to Dean and Peter would be every bit as great as what Angela was facing. The best option would be for him to go in alone but Peter wouldn't stand for it.

"Don't worry about Dean and me," Peter said, breaking the silence. "Lutar's scheduled to perform in a concert. He's established himself in the community. He won't want to harm representatives of NPR. You're the weak link, not us. You're too close to the victim. Normally I wouldn't allow you to participate, but I recognize you have the best chance of success."

Neal breathed easier at his words. He wouldn't have to fight multiple fires. He could focus on Angela.

"If this was an unknown person—not your cousin—how would you approach it?"

Peter was being completely open. Neal needed to respond in kind. "I'd plan it the same way, using the dart as my secret weapon. The machete would be last resort, only to be used if I was attacked and had no alternative. To keep my nerves at even keel, I'd plot the moves as a game." He paused to assess Peter's reaction. "You probably wondered why Mozzie uses board games so much. It's a way of objectivizing the job so personal emotions and fears don't compromise the execution."

Peter nodded slowly. "That makes sense. So how do I help you compartmentalize? Ask Edith if she has a _Monopoly_ board lying around?"

Neal relaxed into a smile. "It's not necessary. We've already outlined the strategy. All it needs now are the costumes."

Peter grinned even as he rolled his eyes. "Is that so, hotshot? Have you given a name to this con we're going to pull?"

"Yep, Swamp Fox."

"You're wearing a tricorn hat rather than a fedora, I take it."

"You are as well. I may be the Swamp Fox but you're General Washington. Wasn't he called the Sword of the Revolution? Besides, you need the practice. When we get back to New York, we'll initiate a triple con against Adler, the Mansfelds, and Ydrus. You're going to need to bring out your inner con artist. That's not something you've had a lot of practice with. Consider this a dress rehearsal."

Peter snorted "When I came down to Shepherdstown with you, that's exactly what I was thinking. Were you ready to go back in the field and handle the stress of the coming operation? This is not the kind of trial run I'd envisaged."

Despite everything that had gone down the previous month, they were still on the same wavelength. That proved they'd be okay. "We'll both be fine. We'll rescue Angela, go back to New York, and start the clock on the U-boat con. It's what we do."

"Go from one crazy scheme to another?" Peter raised that annoying eyebrow which was the tell of a reality check coming up—"How are you going to explain to Michael that you're carrying a machete?"

Michael would never find out. The only reason to carry one was to kill vampires and that was a subject he didn't intend to discuss.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

While they were outside, Peter went ahead and called Lutar, securing an appointment for two o'clock. Neal had hoped they could meet earlier, but that was the only time Lutar offered. It may have been for the best. Neal had never used a canoe for a heist—of princesses or any other type of treasure, and the prep work needed was not insignificant. Michael insisted on Neal receiving basic canoe training in the morning, and Peter and Dean went along as well. They took advantage of the practice run to scout out Lutar's mansion.

Michael had rented a 4-seat canoe from a local boat shop for the day. It took them thirty minutes to row down the Potomac to reach Lutar's estate. His house was unique among the mansions lining the riverbank. The stone castle was built in the Norman style with a crenelated roof, three visible stories and a probable basement. It was set on a steep hillside, perhaps a hundred yards away from the river. Terraces led off the house on two levels. There was a large round turret at one end. Neal wondered if that was where Angela was staying—a princess in a tower.

Rows of ornamental evergreens led down to the river's edge. They'd provide ideal cover. The estate had a small boat dock and shed, but there were no signs of boating activity. Even Peter had to admit the layout looked feasible for what Neal the Swamp Fox had in mind.

When they returned from the morning canoe session, Neal went to the university and prepared an ID for Peter as well as documentation about the fictitious NPR documentary series. Afterward he conducted a practice interview with Dean and Peter where he played the part of Lutar. He delegated Michael to critique them after each run-through. Neither Peter nor Dean was a natural at the art of blithering endlessly on a random topic. Peter could handle finance frauds where he was already knowledgeable, but a subject where he knew nothing? That required help.

The rock music angle was their saving grace. Michael provided tips based on comments Angela had made on using the dulcimer in rock music. By the time they were ready to leave, Neal was satisfied they could keep Lutar engaged for over an hour.

Sam continued to be too weak to provide any assistance. The fever was gone but he couldn't seem to stay awake.

Midafternoon, Neal and Michael left the boat ramp on Princess Street for the canoe trip up the Potomac. Michael had also rented fishing gear. Their plan was for Michael to stake out a position near the boat ramp and pretend to fish while Neal sneaked into the castle. The terrain was sufficiently wooded that Michael should be able to stay close and still be out of the line of sight from the house. Neal had brought along a soft-sided art portfolio case. The shoulder strap would keep it from impeding his movements. If he was stopped on the grounds, he'd explain that he was an artist and had ventured onto the estate to capture the beauty of the castle on paper. Only Peter and Dean knew about the machete concealed inside.

As he and Michael paddled up the river, there were few other pleasure boats to be seen. Once they'd left Shepherdstown, the banks of the river became heavily wooded. They passed a couple of birders in a kayak who waved at them.

"You're sure you won't need help in the house?" Michael asked for the ten-thousandth time. "What if Angela's unconscious? Will you be able to carry her?"

"Relax. I can manage her." Angela's voice might be powerful but she couldn't weigh much over a hundred pounds.

"What if she doesn't want to come with you?" Michael demanded.

 _She'll agree once she hears Lutar's a vampire._ "I'll tell her she's being drugged. Angela is as opposed to drugs as I am. I'll persuade her I have proof. You just need to keep yourself calm. When you get my text, come to the boat ramp."

Michael relaxed into gloomy silence. If he knew the extent of the danger Angela faced, Neal didn't think he'd be able to hold it together.

"We have a good plan. This is going to work," he insisted and began singing "Michael Row the Boat Ashore."

Michael snorted. "I knew that was coming!"

"Then you should know the words. Sing it with me!" Neal ordered. They sang while they paddled, making up their own words about the celebration they'd have once she was safe. Michael liked to bake cakes, so Neal threw in lyrics for the Bunnicula cake he'd make—a carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Silly stuff, but it helped Michael relax. Neal wished he'd brought along recording equipment. Once Angela was rescued, this was one song she needed to hear.

When they arrived at Lutar's estate, they maneuvered the canoe close to the bank at the edge of the woods so Neal could jump out without being spotted.

"Good luck," Michael said, a mute entreaty in his eyes.

"I'll bring her back to you," Neal promised, refusing to consider any other outcome.

He glanced at his watch. Peter and Dean should have pulled up a few minutes ago. He didn't intend to break in till they'd already started their discussion. Neal scrambled along the edge of the woods, avoiding the broad stone steps which led up the hillside to the house. He waited for a few minutes before making a closer approach, using the time to slip on a pair of gloves. He'd debated using them. Why should he worry about leaving fingerprints at a vampire manor?

In the end he decided they helped him get into cat burglar mode. With guests at the house, Neal didn't expect Lutar to have activated his security system. Did a vampire ever feel the need for alarms?

Rather than attempt to enter one of the doors on the first floor, Neal scaled a wall to arrive on a terrace on the second floor. French patio doors opened off the house onto the terrace. He suspected it was one of the main bedrooms. He crept up to the doors then sneaked a peek inside. By the size of the room, it was Lutar's—the master bedroom. Fitting furnishings for a vampire. Heavy Gothic furniture. Black satin sheets. Smoky lavender accessories. Neal breathed a deep sigh of relief not to see Angela sprawled out on the bed, attired in a black lace negligee, blood dripping from her neck. He never should have watched so many Dracula movies. He had to stop imagining Angela as Mina.

The patio door was unlocked. Lutar wasn't worried about intruders. Did he keep familiars? Mozzie had told Neal about the companions of supernatural beings who possessed mysterious powers. Giant dogs, hawks who'd prey on the unsuspecting.

But there were no snarls or flapping of wings when he entered the room. Neal took a quick scan of the furnishings. The only unusual item was on the dresser—a collection of small violet-colored glass bottles. He removed the cap of one of them to sniff the contents. A faint floral fragrance which he couldn't place. Was it a drug? He felt a little light-headed after sniffing it. He took five of them and stashed them in his portfolio.

He then retrieved a small oil can from his case and oiled the hinges of the door into the hallway before opening it. Old houses often had squeaky doors. No point in ringing the doorbell.

The bedroom he'd entered was located in the back of the house at the end of a wide hallway. The carpet was a welcome sight. Less chance of creaky floorboards.

Light coming from under the closed door of the adjoining room. Neal paused to listen to the faint clicks of fingers on computer keys. There were likely three, perhaps four people inside. They couldn't all be secretaries answering Lutar's fan mail. Would he be so brazen as to run the identity fraud operation from here? The vampire Dean had interrogated said the operation was being run out of Maryland. Had he lied? A final attempt to screw hunters? Never trust a vampire.

A dangerous situation had just gotten worse. Assuming he could find Angela and steal her away, he'd be leaving Peter and Dean in a house with multiple bloodsuckers. They were supposed to make their departure after receiving the go signal from Neal, but that couldn't come quickly enough.

Neal sneaked up to the massive staircase. He could hear voices below. He crept down the first step to get a feel for the layout. The stairs opened onto the salon. Dean and Peter were sitting in dark leather chairs with Lutar by the fireplace. Lutar was facing glass patio doors which looked out onto the river. If Neal took Angela by the outside terrace and down the steps on the west, Lutar shouldn't be able to observe them. It was a plan. But first he needed to find her.

He retreated upstairs and began testing the doors, a slow process since he needed to squeeze a couple of drops of oil onto the hinges of each one before opening them.

He found Angela on the third attempt. She was fast asleep on a sleigh bed, resting on top of pink embroidered satin sheets. No black lace negligee as he'd feared. Instead, Michael's Angela was wearing gray sleep shorts and a lavender tank top with two bunnies kissing. That had to be a gift from Michael. Neal carefully scrutinized every inch of flesh that he could see. No wounds or bite marks of any kind. Not even a bruise. Neal stopped to take a breath. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it. He was in time. No one wearing a rabbit tank top could be a vampire.

The room, like the master bedroom, looked like a set piece for one of the Gothic romance novels that Sara was so fond of reading. The tall ornate headboard and tufted upholstery sofa were covered in crimson velvet. The wallpaper was bronze damask. Thick burgundy curtains shut out the light. Dark wood crown molding and heavy walnut furniture made the atmosphere sensual and oppressive. Neal didn't see any of the violet bottles he'd found in Lutar's room.

Angela looked so peaceful. He knew Dean would take out his machete and have it ready, but how could he explain it to her without revealing the truth? Instead he retrieved the dart and palmed it up his shirt sleeve.

"Angela, time to wake up," he whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. He had his hand ready to clamp over her mouth if she tried to speak or scream.

Her eyes slowly opened. The pupils were blown wide, the irises barely visible. Normally. Angela never slept at this hour of the day. There was no doubt this time that she'd been drugged. Her eyes widened as she gazed first at him then around the room. When she started to speak, he hushed her with his finger on her lips. When she nodded understanding, he breathed easier.

"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice slurred.

"Lutar's house. Do you remember how you got here?"

"I came to see him, then I . . ." She shook her head groggily. "I can't remember."

"I'll explain later. We need to leave, _now_. Michael's waiting for you." When she smiled sleepily at the mention of his name, he knew she'd be okay.

He texted a brief message to Peter and Dean that he'd found her. He also warned them about the office. Maybe the people inside weren't vampires, but his instinct was telling him not to count on it. Angela tried to stand up, while he texted, but he kept a hand on her shoulder till he could help.

And she needed it. Her legs buckled under her when put weight on them. Neal quickly slid an arm around her for support.

"What happened to me?" she whispered, looking dismayed.

"You were drugged. Don't try to talk. I'll carry you if you can't manage." He tightened his arm around her waist. She was barefoot but he didn't see any shoes and didn't want to waste precious minutes in the search.

He guided Angela to the doorway, pausing a moment to listen before opening the door. A faint voice could be heard, probably coming from the room where he'd heard the computers. Neal opened the door a crack and risked a look down the hallway. The door to the office was open. There was no mistaking that accent. Hagen. Correction, Crowley.

Peter had been right. The inescapable conclusion? Crowley was working with Lutar.

Neal backed into the bedroom and texted Peter and Dean.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley flecked a speck of dust off his black jacket as he materialized in the tank, his term for Lutar's computer center.

Time to check on his sharks.

The trio were feeding happily. They were conducting phishing attacks this week. When Crowley took over the reins of Nesarat Holdings for Electra, the company was living off investments made decades ago, a relic of an era long gone. He wouldn't be surprised if some of their profits didn't date back to the time of the Medicis. Yes, they were financially solvent. But where was the thrill? The rush? Electra was so cautious. Hiding behind the façade of a bookseller when she could live in regal splendor was no way for a goddess to act.

Back in May when they planned for the arrival of the new generation of pure-bloods, Electra was still living in the Dark Ages. Her sister Gemma was partly to blame with her antiquated ideas of fiefdoms. She'd tried to convince Electra that the pure-bloods should set themselves up as princes, ruling estates from manors as they'd done for centuries. The homegrown vampires would be their serfs—their thralls—their little smudges. Crowley rolled his eyes, causing one of the sharks to glance nervously at him.

It had taken all of Crowley's powerful persuasion ability—and he was a master—to convince Electra she needed to get modern. Why live off the meager pickings of the land when they could rule an empire of computer hackers?

Gradually he'd won her over, and in the process she began to have a new appreciation for him. What would Electra be like in bed? His bed? He could introduce her to the thrills of the King of Hell. Why bother with Cheekbones when she could have him?

Crowley closed the lid on that pleasant daydream for another time. He had a headache to vanquish—the headache that was Lutar. Why Electra settled on him for her favorite son was a mystery. As far as Crowley was concerned, he was a curse.

The compromise solution he and Electra had arrived at was to place one of the pure-bloods in the old-fashioned way while another would be established according to Crowley's recommendations. They'd then compare the results. Of course, she would pick Lutar to be a prince in his castle. Not that Crowley would ever dare criticize the Queen of the Stars to her face, but she'd messed up badly when she created that doofus. First she made him too talented. Compounding her error, she gave him too much sex appeal. It was a deadly combination. The girls were swarming all over him. Heady stuff for a prince barely a month old. His ego was unsustainable. Already he'd attracted far too much attention.

Electra insisted on a small fiefdom, so her humble servant had obliged with Shepherdstown, but he could have told her she was sending the Titanic straight for the ice berg. Where was the discretion? Big cities, they were the prize territories for the twenty-first century, not rural hamlets. Urban metropolises provided anonymity. There was safety among the masses. You'd think Electra would appreciate that.

Electra had ordered Lutar to renounce the Caffrey wench, but Crowley doubted her darling boy obeyed her. There'd be hell to pay—literally—if he hadn't. Pure-blood princes couldn't hold a candle to a demon when it came to physical persuasion of the non-subtle kind.

Crowley turned to focus on his local sharks. He'd brought in one vampire from Eastern Europe to teach his two newbies. He now considered Drasko to be his lieutenant. The kid had earned the privilege. Sharp, ruthless, he knew how to control bloodlust—not only his but the newbies. Discipline, that's what they required and Drasko had a cruel streak which made him a natural leader. As long as he didn't forget he served Crowley, he'd go far.

The operation was proceeding smoothly. Drasko had turned two hackers, and already no one would recognize them for the college students they used to be. Crowley had selected them personally based on knowledge from his new meatsuit, Hagen. Who would have thought online gaming would provide such rich recruiting opportunities? These kids were perfect. Estranged from their families with no morals to speak of, they lived for the thrill of playing their video games. Crowley simply provided them with an even better game to play. ID fraud, ransom attacks, phishing for profit. The world was their new arena.

Where's Lutar?" he asked Drasko. Electra would insist on a report.

"At a meeting. A couple of representatives from NPR are here. They called this morning to make an appointment to discuss a documentary on Appalachian music."

Lutar had mentioned the documentary. More publicity. Crowley sighed deeply. That was the last thing Lutar should engage in. They were probably filling his head with nonsense. Would he want to play Carnegie Hall next? As usual it was up to Crowley to put a stop to it before it got out of hand.

He strode over to the surveillance console and pulled up the feed from the cam in the living room. When he saw who was there, there was only one word for it: "Bollocks."

Drasko looked at him, startled. "What's wrong?"

"Lutar's invited a hunter into his parlor. And not only that, he brought Dick Tracy with him." Where there was a squirrel, a moose couldn't be far behind. Was Cheekbones Caffrey with Sam? Double bollocks.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter glanced at Dean. "What now?" he muttered.

Lutar had received a call on his cell phone, excused himself, and left the room. A few minutes earlier, Neal had texted earlier Peter that Crowley was meeting with others—possibly vampires—in an upstairs office.

So now they had one pure-blood vampire, a demon, and who knows what else. Much as Peter would love to arrest Hagen the art forger, the demon possessing him would be unimpressed by a gun and a badge.

Dean was staring over Peter's shoulder at the patio doors. When he craned his neck, Peter turned to look as well.

"Neal just left with Angela," Dean said in an undertone. "He had his arm around her, but he didn't have to carry her. She wasn't fighting him." He stood up. "Let's get the hell out of here."

A good plan.

But by the time they stood up, Lutar had whisked back into the room.

He had Peter in his grasp before he knew what was happening. With an easy twist, he flung Peter against the fireplace.

Lutar was no taller than him and quite a bit slimmer, but his hands had a strength that could only be described as supernatural. The worst was his face. His skin had become translucent. Molten lava seemingly flowed just below the surface as if he were the sun. Lutar's eyes blazed with the same fire. Peter felt that his own skin was being scorched by the flames. The heat was unbearable.

Dean grabbed his machete from his briefcase and rushed toward Lutar. But before he could reach him, he too was sent hurtling through the room.

With a flick of his hand, Crowley had slammed Dean against the stone wall of the chamber where he collapsed in a heap on the ground. Peter had seen Crowley charge down the stairs right after Lutar but had been powerless to warn him.

"Coming to spy on me, are you?" Lutar snarled. With extended fangs, he reached for Peter's neck. Still paralyzed, Peter was filled with a terror he'd never experienced.

"Stop!" Crowley glared at Lutar like he was a mischievous schoolchild. "Have you no finesse? You can't kill Dick Tracy. Do you want the entire FBI on your back? I know you've only been alive a month, but surely you can exercise a little more control." Crowley heaved a sigh. "Why I was chosen to be your babysitter . . ."

He turned to Peter. "As for you, I'd hoped I wouldn't have to gaze on your mug again. Didn't you learn your lesson in Windsor?" When Crowley took possession of Hagen's body in the witch's basement, he'd set the house on fire. Did he plan to do the same here?

Two vampires came out of a side door in the corridor leading off the salon. They had their fangs extended but so far weren't making a move toward them.

"Control your rage, Lutar," Crowley scolded, "and use those brain cells. Surely you aren't all hormones? If you kill these two, what will happen? Their friends will find their bodies. You'll be exposed. You'll need to relocate. It's such a bother."

Lutar had now assumed his normal appearance. "What makes you think they'll be found? We could bury their corpses, or—better yet—burn them."

"Think of the time it will take. The moose"—Crowley jerked his head in Dean's direction—"is probably on his way now and Cheekbones with him. Not that Cheekbones is a threat. I doubt you need fear death by paintbrush, but his friends are a different story. Why go through all the hassle, when you have a much better tool at your disposal?"

"Charm them?" Lutar asked, scanning Peter doubtfully.

"A variation. Simply erase their memories and plant the ones you wish instead."

Lutar shrugged. "It won't be as satisfying."

"Sure it will." Crowley snapped his fingers at the waiting vamps. "Take them down to the dungeon. Don't you love that whoever built this delightful manor included all the finer touches? But we shouldn't be complacent. We may have company. I'll tell the lads upstairs to be—"

"Angela!" Lutar's voice was a howl of outrage. "Where is she?" He darted to the patio doors and frantically scanned the surroundings.

Crowley groaned. "Did you disobey Mommy Dearest?"

* * *

 _Notes: Angsty themes are the hallmark of the Supernatural TV series, and in Caffrey Conversation Neal and Peter haven't been spared either. That's the theme of this week's blog post: "Stress Lines."_

 _Neal is breathing easier that Angela hasn't turned into a vampire, but he's a long way from being home free. Dean and Peter have been hauled off to the dungeon. Next week Electra returns, and she's lusting for vengeance. Those stress lines are about to multiply._

 _There is a way to cure newly turned vampires who haven't consumed human blood, but this is only discovered in the sixth season of Supernatural. I've patterned Lutar's castle after Berkeley Springs Castle, built in the late 1800s and about 50 miles west of Shepherdstown. The pins of Lutar's castle are photos of this lovely bit of Gothic fantasy in the hills of West Virginia._

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_  
 _Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	7. Astrena

**Chapter 7: Astrena**

 **Lutar's manor.** **Thursday, August 4, 2005.**

Neal was able to hustle Angela out of the castle without setting off any alarms. She was still dazed and groggy from being drugged. Under the circumstances, that was for the best. Otherwise, she would have peppered him with a thousand questions. If she couldn't remember how she'd wound up in a strange bed, this was not the time to discuss it.

While Neal helped her down the hillside, his thoughts were focused on Peter and Dean. They were still in the castle with a pure-blood vampire, an undetermined number of garden-variety fangs, and the demon Crowley. Did that mean that the witch Alcy was also there? She and Crowley had vanished together from the witch house in Connecticut. She might have taken up residence with Lutar. Could Alcy be another name for Astrena?

Peter had given Neal orders to leave with Michael and Angela, and Neal hadn't debated the point. He'd been too relieved to have Peter sanction him going in to quibble over technicalities. But as long as Peter and Dean were still inside, he was staying put. And now that they had to face Crowley too, all previous orders were null and void.

If all had gone according to plan, Peter would have made an excuse to leave as soon as Neal texted that he and Angela were in the clear. Would have, should have, could have . . . Had they?

Dean said Crowley could access Hagen's memories. That meant he knew who Peter was. Dean and Sam had been with them that evening in the witch house when Hagen was possessed by Crowley. Their cover would be blown if Crowley spotted them now with Lutar.

First things first. Michael better have rowed that boat ashore.

Neal had texted him before leaving with Angela, but there were no certainties where vampires were concerned. Did they have any special powers in the water? Neal hadn't asked Dean but he should have. They ran with preternatural speed. Maybe they were able to skim the surface of the water like they were on water skis. Or they could launch themselves into the water like blood-seeking torpedoes . . .

Neal tightened his grip on Angela's waist and propelled her faster.

She glanced behind her shoulder. "Is someone following us?"

"No, but Lutar won't be happy that I stole you away."

Despite his fears, they appeared to have escaped undetected. Neal could now see the boat ramp. Michael was already anchoring the canoe. For a brief moment, Neal considered warning him about vampires. But what were the odds Michael would believe? Much more likely he'd suspect Neal had gone mental.

Michael ran toward them. With a quick hug, he scooped Angela into his arms and carried her onto the boat. Angela gazed up at him, a blissful smile on her face, not letting out a peep of protest at his white knight maneuver.

They'd brought blankets for her in the expectation she'd need to lie down in the canoe, and after an initial hesitation, she didn't resist.

Once back in Shepherdstown, Michael would take Angela to the nearest hospital. The Berkeley Medical Center was a half-hour away by car. Earlier they'd discussed how Michael would have to insist she'd been drugged. Now, with the symptoms Angela was displaying, it was no longer a question. He'd also notify the police. By the time they arrived at the castle, Dean and Peter should be long gone.

Neal gave Michael two of the small violet bottles he'd picked up in Lutar's bedroom. "These may contain the drug she was being given."

"Aren't you coming with us?"

Neal shook his head. "Peter and Dean may need me. Head on back and . . . row like you're in a race."

Michael gave him a sharp look. "You think we'll be followed?"

"It's possible."

Michael nodded, his jaw setting, and quickly settled himself into position to row.

"How will _you_ get back?" Angela asked as Neal untied the rope holding the canoe.

"The main highway is not that far. I'll climb over the fence and hitch a ride back to town." He gave her a reassuring smile. "See ya at the hospital."

He shoved the canoe away from the dock then darted back up the hillside. Still no sign of a pursuit. Chloe's Fang No. 5 must have worked.

When he reached the castle, Neal crept around the perimeter to the front. Peter's Mustang was still parked on the circular drive near the main entrance.

Not the scenario he wanted.

Neal put on hold imagining the cause of the delay. It was time to bring back his inner Swamp Fox. He dabbed a little more of Chloe's trillium oil on his neck then retreated to the back of the castle.

Sneaking silently up to the patio doors leading into the salon, he risked a peek inside. The room was empty, but Dean and Peter's briefcases were on the floor. He tested one of the doors and found it unlocked.

Lutar wasn't concerned about burglars . . . or swamp foxes. He should have been.

With Angela safe, Neal felt ready to tackle anything. He still had his dart. His machete was in his portfolio case. Dean and Peter had likely been taken prisoner. Neal refused to consider any grimmer possibilities.

Cautiously he cracked the door open. Faint voices were coming from the direction of the staircase. He slipped inside the door, closing it behind him.

Neal's first goal was to retrieve their weapons. Dean had two extra darts of dead man's blood in his attaché case and both men had brought machetes. Peter was also carrying a gun, although it would be ineffective against a vampire.

The Winchesters said vampires didn't usually kill their prey immediately. Instead, the victims were stored in their nest to be fed off of for several days. None of the rooms upstairs that Neal had seen looked particularly suitable. Victims were a food source. Would they be stored in a pantry or the kitchen? As a rising rock star, Lutar must throw lavish parties which would likely be catered. The kitchen would have to appear ordinary. The cellar, on the other hand . . . Surely the castle had a basement. Mozzie's voice popped into Neal's head. _What better place than a basement for a secret laboratory to make drugs and do other unspeakable things?_

Just then Neal heard voices in the hallway. No time to exit. He darted to the suit of armor displayed in a corner and flattened himself behind it.

The voices grew louder. Crowley he recognized. Something about Lutar searching the grounds. Neal peered over the shoulder of the armor to see three men and a woman with Crowley. Were they demons or vampires? How would you know?

They appeared to have come from an open doorway in the hall. The group headed straight to the main staircase. No one paused to sniff the air or look into the salon. _Thank you, Chloe, for Fang No. 5._

Crowley stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Find Lutar. Make sure nothing happens to him. If he's harmed in any way, it's Astrena you have to answer to, not me. I'll meet you once the geeks are on their way." Did that mean Astrena was in the castle, too? Vampires and demons weren't enough of a problem?

The vampires took off through the front door while Crowley heaved a heavy sigh. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Why am I cursed with imbeciles?" he moaned. "Bloodsucking nerds still wet behind their ears that I have to nursemaid, a lovesick prince barely a month old who's convinced he's found his queen consort, and a bunch of troglodytes to execute my orders. Is there no justice in the world?"

He stomped upstairs, yelling orders presumably to the vamps working in the upstairs office.

As soon as Crowley was out of eyesight, Neal raced to the corridor. The open doorway he'd seen opened into a narrow staircase leading down to the basement. Neal decided to search it first.

The front part of the basement was filled with sound and recording equipment. A utility room was off to the side. Behind the recording console was a locked door. It was imitation Gothic with an elaborate lock and padlock. Anything that secure was worth investigating.

Neal retrieved his lock picks from the hidden compartment in his shirt front placket. It was his experience that massive-looking locks were often the easiest to pick, and this one was no exception. As he worked he could hear the thuds of pounding footsteps overhead. Crowley and the hackers. They better not need to retrieve anything from the basement.

When he opened the door, he found himself in a replica of a medieval dungeon, complete with prisoners. Peter and Dean had been chained to the wall with iron shackles on their arms and legs. Dean had a cut on his forehead but otherwise they appeared unharmed.

Neal dashed forward with his lock pick to free them. "Like a little assistance or are you in the middle of a game of _Dungeons and Dragons_?"

Peter broke into a smile. "I've never been so happy to have you disobey an order."

"No bites or bloodletting?"

Peter shook his head. "I felt like I'd been transported to the surface of the sun for a moment, but we're fine."

Peter refused to go into details, saying there'd be plenty of time later, and Dean was demanding a status update. After Neal unlocked Peter's wrist manacles, he gave Peter a spare pick. He'd be able to open his leg irons while Neal freed Dean. Peter's skills were sufficient for these rudimentary locks.

"Angela and Michael are now safely on their way to Shepherdstown," Neal reported. "When I came back, I overheard Crowley give orders to find Lutar. He's apparently searching the grounds for Angela. Crowley was heading upstairs to help the hackers clean out."

When he described the people, Dean confirmed they were the vampires who'd taken them prisoner.

"Our best chance will be to sneak out while Crowley's upstairs," Peter said, rubbing his wrists.

"He may be already leaving," Neal said. "Do you hear that?" It was the welcome crunch of car wheels on the gravel drive. The engine rumble was growing fainter.

Peter nodded. "Sounds like a large SUV."

"That will give us a fighting chance," Dean said. "We still have the vampires and Lutar to contend with. We gotta go back to the salon for our weapons." He didn't mention what they'd do if Alcy or Astrena was around, and Neal knew better than to ask. They hadn't had any luck in Connecticut. Their best hope was to sneak out before she spotted them.

"No need to fetch your knives. I provide arms as well as lock pick service." Neal opened up his portfolio bag and tossed them their machetes. "I only found two darts."

"That's all I had," Dean said. "One for each of us. Make them count."

They crept up the stairs. Would they be able to escape without incident? That wouldn't necessarily be the best outcome. As long as Lutar was loose, wouldn't he just come back for Angela? Neal didn't voice aloud his concern but tightened his grip on the machete.

Dean paused, his hand on the front door handle. "Don't stop if you hear anything. Head straight for the Mustang."

"I left the car open," Peter added. "There's an extra key in the glove compartment if you need it." Peter was preparing for any contingency, but there was no way Neal or Dean would drive off without him.

Dean opened the door cautiously and peered outside. "Looks good," he muttered. "Now!"

They burst out of the house and raced to the car at top speed. But not vampire-fast. The vamps were on them before they'd gone more than a few paces.

Neal was grappled from behind and dragged into the bushes. Panicked, he tore at the hands gripping him. A tattooed arm wrenched away his machete and tackled him to the ground. Neal twisted around to face his attacker while he struggled to unpin his hands.

He was one of the men Neal had seen with Crowley. Heavyset, he looked like a normal thug till he opened his mouth and his fangs extended.

Neal kicked and managed to spear him in the groin. The vamp released his grip just long enough for Neal to get his right hand free. Tumbling away from him, he fished in his pocket for the precious dart. Holding it like a javelin, he plunged it into the vampire's neck as he leaped on top of him.

The vampire instantly became a dead weight. His eyes continued to glare at Neal, but he was unable to move.

Neal squirmed out from under him and got to his feet when he was yanked from behind by another arm. Where did he come from?

Lutar was in his face, breathing on him. At the first breath, Neal was powerless to resist. He could only stare into those glowing red eyes in a translucent face of molten lava.

"You took Angela! You'll pay for your folly!"

He pressed the palm of his right hand onto Neal's forehead, boring deeper and deeper until Neal was transported to an inferno of fire beyond anything he could have imagined.

His felt his flesh being scorched away. It was an agony beyond screams. Already blackness was clawing at his mind.

In the midst of the fire a figure emerged. Ice-blue gas in the shape of a woman. Tendrils of her long hair writhed like snakes as she extended her arms to him. Her touch was dry ice on his burnt flesh, freezing it as bit by bit she pulverized him into tiny chips . . .

The hard ground shocked him into consciousness. Dean was standing behind Lutar, his arm wrapped around his throat.

With an unearthly howl, Lutar disintegrated into a column of red smoke which rose high into the air. Numbly Neal stared at its trail as it disappeared into the clouds.

Dazed, Neal turned his head to see Dean wiping his machete on the grass.

"What happened?" Peter demanded, charging up.

"When I found Neal, Lutar had him in his grasp. I couldn't get into position to go for the fang's neck without injuring Neal, so I knifed him in his back. Appeared to do the trick." Dean crouched beside Neal as he checked the sky. "Never expected a vamp would leave a demon trail."

The paralysis was quickly leaving him. Neal propped himself up on his elbows and leaned against Peter, taking in big lungfuls of air. He couldn't believe his flesh was still intact. His clothes hadn't been singed. More mind games, this time courtesy of Lutar?

He tried to explain what he'd experienced. If he'd been fully awake, he probably wouldn't have gone into so much detail, but he was too dazed to resist Peter's questions.

"Could that have been Astrena?" Peter asked, keeping his hand on the top of Neal's head. It was a reassuring reminder he was back in normal reality.

Dean shrugged, looking buffaloed. "Maybe?"

Neal stood up, still a little wobbly, while Dean and Peter filled him in on what he'd missed. One vampire had fled the scene. Three were immobilized from dead man's darts. With difficulty, Neal wrenched his thoughts from the nightmare. None of it had been real. He used the jigsaw puzzle technique his therapist had employed to banish the thoughts, the fear . . . "Was that the end of Lutar? he asked.

"Man, I dunno, but I thought it'd be harder to kill him," Dean said, shaking his head. "When a demon leaves his meatsuit, he exits in a pillar of smoke similar to what we saw, but the body is left behind. When a vampire is killed, his corpse is left behind. A knife in the back won't kill him. I'd expect a pure-blood to be even harder to gank."

The vampire Neal had darted was still lying immobile on the ground. They returned to the main entrance to check on the others. Peter was keeping a light hand pressed against his back and Neal didn't protest at the assist. He was still shaky from the vision or whatever that was.

A man and a woman were still sprawled where Dean and Peter had left them. The vamps glared up at them but were incapable of speech or movement.

"Any chance of turning them back?" Peter muttered to Dean.

He shook his head. "We can tie them up and do the deed later—or finish them off now. Your call."

Neal understood the drill. Beheading. They were still alive. Yes, they were killers. The rational side of his brain understood what needed to be done, but his stomach was lurching at the thought.

"If we don't kill them now, they'll simply continue," Peter said, showing a calmness Neal wasn't capable of.

Dean nodded. "There really is no choice." He slanted a glance in Neal's direction.

Neal knew he should help them, although he didn't know how he possibly could. An execution? If the vampires were fighting him, he might be capable. He gazed at the prisoners and—"Look!"

No need to tell them. They were staring in shock too. The vampires were crumbling into ashes in front of their eyes. No one had touched them.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered, swiping the side of his face with his hand.

"Have you ever seen that before?" Peter demanded.

"Not with a fang." Dean scanned the perimeter as if a demon was hiding behind a tree. They checked on the third vampire and he'd vanished as well.

"Could Crowley have done it?" Neal asked.

"Probably," Dean conceded, "but why? I guess we shouldn't complain. That takes care of the problem."

They headed for the house to check inside. Peter opened the front door. "Crowley's working with a pure-blood. Probably involved with ID fraud." He exhaled. "Hagen's file's going to need a larger folder."

"It makes me wonder if that witch in Connecticut—Alcy Lancaster—is Astrena masquerading as a mortal," Dean said. "Neal heard Crowley mention Astrena's name. He'd left the witch house with Alcy." He glanced upstairs. "I don't think we have to worry about her being here now. If she were, we'd already know."

That was Neal's thought too. In the witch house, Alcy could have easily killed them. Like Lutar, she'd been able to paralyze them. Could that fiery torment he'd experienced with Lutar be related to the fire Crowley had set in the witch house?

"If I remember my Greek mythology correctly," Peter said, "gods could disguise themselves as mortals and live as normal members of society. Astrena may be doing the same."

"Bobby says there are similar cases," Dean agreed and turned to Neal. "Any chance that woman you saw in your head could have been Alcy?"

"It's tempting to think so. Alcy, Astrena—even the names are close. Alcy was a brunette. The figure in my vision . . . her hair was ice-blue and her features so distorted she didn't resemble anyone human."

Dean grunted. "What you saw in your head doesn't count for much. She could easily disguise her appearance or be a shapeshifter."

Peter looked at him startled. "You've encountered real shapeshifters?"

"Man, you've only scratched the surface of all the monsters that exist." Dean refused to elaborate, and Neal didn't feel like pressing him. He'd had enough nightmares for one day.

They searched the house top to bottom. In the upstairs office, the computers were gone. The peripherals and power strips had been left behind. In the hackers' haste to depart, they'd neglected to take a hard drive enclosure, raising hopes for retrievable data.

The spartan dorm-style sleeping arrangements in the rooms on the top floor had enough beds for seven. Neal felt fairly confident that he'd heard three computers at work. Assuming all the hackers had departed with Crowley, one vampire had escaped.

The only women's garments were in the upstairs barracks. If Alcy was living there, surely she would have had more luxurious accommodations. There was no art on the walls. The violet bottles Neal had found in Lutar's bedroom had disappeared.

Peter had called Max Ganesh in D.C. when they returned to the house. As far as the Bureau was concerned, this would be a case of identify fraud and felony use of drugs. The specifics of how Lutar transformed into a column of red smoke would _not_ be included.

Peter advocated they take the line that Lutar had been suspected of holding Angela against her will. When he, Michael, and Neal came to the estate to plead for her release, they found her drugged and the house vacant. Michael had taken her to the hospital while he and Neal stayed to search the house. The contents of the violet bottles would be analyzed for evidence. Peter promised not to mention Dean's involvement.

By the time Max arrived with the Evidence Control Unit, Dean had already vacated the house and was hiding in the woods by the front gate. After a brief round of introductions, Neal excused himself, explaining that he was heading to the hospital to check on Angela. Peter could catch a ride back to town with Max.

Neal picked Dean up at the gate and let him drive Peter's car. Something told him Dean would be a lousy backseat driver, and it hadn't escaped Neal's notice how he'd stroked the side of the car. It probably reminded him of Chloe's Mustang.

Once they were back at the inn, Neal accompanied Dean to his room to check on Sam. They found him dressed and sitting at the desk, wolfing down a burger. "I woke up an hour ago," he said, "and felt my old self again—my old hungry self. Is Angela okay?"

"Appears to be," Dean said. "Michael's with her at the hospital where she's getting checked out."

"Dean will be happy to have you back," Neal said. "I make a poor substitute." It was galling to admit his limitations. He might be a swamp fox, but he was no vampire hunter.

"You're not a killer," Dean said bluntly. "Be glad of that." He turned to Sam. "Neal's been holding out on us. Thanks to his hidden talents he was able to save our asses. Next time I need a thief, I'll know who to call on."

Praise from Dean? That _was_ unexpected. But they'd made a good team. The ending was highly satisfactory. Angela was safe. Lutar was no more. Crowley was still out there but he wasn't an immediate threat. Neal turned to leave as Dean began relating their experiences to Sam. Dean didn't need him and he was anxious to check on Angela.

"Dinner's on me tonight," Neal said as he headed for the door. "We have plenty to celebrate."

Sam looked up. "Tell Angela—"

A roaring in his head blocked out Sam's voice. There in front of him was the figure—Astrena—ice-blue frosty gas . . . She stretched out her arms toward him. Each strand of her hair was a live wire which branded his flesh. Neal fell to his knees.

 **A half-hour earlier. The House in the Woods, New Haven.**

Maia closed her book, unable to concentrate. The sunlight filtering in through the stained-glass windows sparkled in a rich palette of colors on the honey-colored oak paneling of the salon, but did little to lighten the dread filling her soul.

If she had a soul . . .

She'd been reading too much poetry. Why should she care? For the first time in ages beyond number, she was beginning to doubt everything.

She'd dreamed last night. And when was the last time she'd been the one dreaming? She was back in Connacht. A young girl once more, playing with her brothers in the courtyard of the castle. She'd thought her existence before Electra carried her away had vanished. Instead, it had remained hidden in a secret place inside her. Why was it reemerging?

Was it because she was abstaining from blood? After the Litha festival in June, Maia had stopped sampling. She suspected blood was addictive and she wanted to wean herself off it before Sam visited. She'd been right. The first days had been torture. But now she'd been clean for over a month, and the memories were resurfacing.

Or was it Sam? Had he awakened something within her?

Electra appeared to suspect nothing. She was tolerating Maia's abstinence, although realistically that couldn't last. She'd already been more insistent about Maia staying in her house, probably to keep an eye on her.

In the aftermath of the attack, Electra would be even more likely to lash out. So far, Maia had been able to keep Sam out of harm's way, but she'd been unable to protect Dean. Would Electra blame both brothers and exact vengeance?

Maia felt the heat rise to her cheeks at the thought of how ill Sam had been. She'd only meant to make him sick enough to have to stay in bed—far away from Lutar. Once she realized she'd overdone it, she eased off. After that first bad night, she kept Sam in a state of peaceful drowsiness with just enough fever that he couldn't go anywhere. She would have kept Dean safe too if she could have established a link. Sam wouldn't want anything to happen to his brother.

And now? Was there any hope for her and Sam? Electra would eventually find out she wasn't feeding off him or anyone else. Maia couldn't run away. Electra had drunk her blood. She'd always be able to find her. If Maia tried to flee, Electra would likely punish her by killing Sam.

Only by pretending to feed off Sam could Maia keep him safe, and even then there were no guarantees.

Maia knew about Lutar, but Electra had never revealed to her where the other pure-bloods were. Sam and Dean were hunters. They were bound to run into them eventually.

Maia fought the onslaught of panic and forced herself to concentrate on the immediate crisis.

When Electra summoned her in the middle of the afternoon, she knew it couldn't be good. Electra didn't leave the bookstore on a whim. Not that her assistant wasn't perfectly capable of managing in her absence, but Electra was conscientious when it came to her business.

But when Lutar was in danger . . .

Crowley's shape shimmered and solidified in front of her. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"That's what I planned to ask you." She secreted the book of poetry under the cushion. Electra could become suspicious if she knew Maia was reading Ní Dhomhnaill, or any other Irish poet for that matter.

"Lutar was insolent from day one. Living as a lord in his castle in that small dump of a town only fed his pride. Willful, ignoring his elders"—he shook his head with a grumble—"Lutar treated me like dirt. Usually someone has to know me for at least a couple of months before that happens. I told Electra she was being too indulgent with her precious brat."

Maia remembered that discussion. Crowley had come close to overstepping his bounds. Electra could be generous, gracious, and yes, even kind, as long as you didn't cross her.

"You'll come with me when I talk with her?" he asked, plainly worried. Electra had made him responsible for Lutar's well-being. She could easily snuff him out. That wasn't what filled Maia with unease, though.

She'd saved Sam, but had Dean been involved in the attack? Sam would be devastated if Electra took out her revenge on him. And then there was Chloe. Maia liked Chloe. She couldn't let Electra hurt anyone Chloe was so attached to.

There was no immediate cause for concern. Since Electra had never drunk Dean's blood, she wouldn't be able to access his mind. But Electra had plenty of other means at her disposal to maim or kill.

Maia fingered the pot of orchids on the table next to her. Bee orchids. Like her, ensnared . . . trapped by honey. If Maia were to have any chance of success, she'd need an ally. Someone whom she could convince that it would be in his best interest to help her. Protecting Sam and his friends would come at a cost, but it was worth it.

Crowley was eyeing her uneasily. She didn't blame him. Electra would be appalled at the thoughts of friendship and pacts of loyalty which were swirling through her head. But it was the way of her family. Not Electra's but hers—the clan . . . Was that it? Did Sam and Dean remind her of her brothers? Her mother had said the druid flame could never be extinguished. Hers was blazing more brightly by the moment.

She strode over to Crowley to stand inches away from him. "You need me and . . . I could use a friend."

He studied her, his fear turning to calculation. "Little mouse wants to play nice? Interesting. What do you propose?"

"I'll defend you from Electra. In return you shield Sam—"

"—deal."

"I'm not done. And Dean and Chloe."

He stared at her. "Why?"

"Will you do it?"

He narrowed his eyes skeptically. "Form a cabal within Electra's empire?"

"Not at all," she insisted. "We're protecting her." At least that was what she liked to think. Protecting Electra from herself.

"How about Cheekbones and Dick Tracy? Have you decided to be their guardian angel as well?"

"Watch over Electra's protégé?" She hadn't factored Neal in, but shouldn't she? Caffrey was a modern rendering of Gafraidth. Her maternal aunt had married a member of that clan from neighboring Fermanagh. How could she ignore ties of blood? Why hadn't she realized this earlier?

Neal had sworn fealty to his boss. They were both friends of Sam and Dean. If either one of them was harmed, would Sam swear a blood oath of vengeance? But what could Maia do to protect Neal from Electra? She'd already claimed him for herself. Electra could destroy Sam as well. She was only laying off him because she thought Maia was feeding on him.

She turned to Crowley. "Could you do it?"

"You really have no idea of what I'm capable of, do you?"

She shook her head. Electra had always been the one to deal with demons, not her.

He shrugged. "I understand very little about who you and Electra are and the nature of your abilities. If I help you, you'll have to be much more forthcoming." He pursed his lips as if assessing her value. The longer he hesitated, the more convinced she became that she needed him.

He extended his hand to her. "It's a gamble but the dividends could be high. I accept."

Maia shook his hand. She doubted Crowley could be trusted, but instinctively she knew her brothers would approve. "We're acting in Electra's best interest," she repeated more for her sake than his.

"If she finds out, we'll be the ones in need of protection." He jerked his head toward the staircase. "Is he with her?"

Maia nodded. "In her bedroom. I'll go up with you."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley surveyed the immense chamber that was Electra's suite. Not his taste, but it had a certain panache. The color scheme was in smoky-mauves and grays with splashes of gold gilt. An early nineteenth century square grand piano was in the alcove with a guitar propped on the wall next to it. Electra liked to play the piano late at night. Crowley had often heard her. Not that she'd ever sung to him. But with time, anything was possible. The ancient Greek gods had sported with mortals countless times, and Crowley was much more than a common mortal.

Lutar was lying motionless on her bed. He was a pillar of fire against the platinum gray silk sheets. Electra had draped herself in a robe of orchid-colored silk, the same color as the orchids in a pot next to the bed. She was standing next to him, chanting in a soft tone when they entered the room.

She looked up at the interruption. Her eyes were black from the spell she'd been casting. Gradually they regained their natural appearance. Impossible to know what the true color was. Based on her mood they could be brown, green, or violet.

"How is he?" Crowley asked.

"He hasn't awakened. Tell me what you know." Her voice was low and silky, not threatening. From experience he knew that was when she was at her deadliest. Maia stood silently beside Crowley, her head bowed.

"I arrived to verify the work of our hacker fangs and discovered Lutar had visitors—Peter Burke and Dean Winchester. It didn't take long to discover why they were there. Lutar had charmed Angela Caffrey to come to the castle." Crowley was careful not to use any slang with Electra. She had a low tolerance. But was it any wonder that the squirrel and Dick Tracy were there?

"Lutar disobeyed me. I'd warned him of the repercussions."

"What will you do?" Maia asked.

"After I wipe his memory, I'll remold him into a guitarist. Lutar will be no longer. He will start afresh. Our sister in Rio de Janeiro has asked for a pure-blood. She can watch over him." Electra turned to him. "You were right. Lutar was far too conspicuous. I won't make that mistake again. You'll set him up in Rio?"

"Of course. The city will provide a rich market for his talents."

"Damage assessment from Shepherdstown?"

"The three hackers are safe. Drasko is proving a worthy lieutenant."

"You were wise in his selection. I met with him when I visited the castle. He has potential. Cultivate him for me."

"Of course, your radiance." Drasko was a handsome fang. Would he be a rival? Crowley doubted it. Drasko would likely be more interested in Crowley than any woman. "When I discovered Peter and Dean were there, I realized Sam and Neal must be on their way, perhaps with additional agents and hunters. It was essential to spirit away our hackers. There were four thralls to guard Lutar. That should have been adequate. After dispatching the hackers, I returned to the castle, but I was too late. Lutar was already gone. One thrall escaped. The others had been given dead man's blood."

"You don't know who plunged the knife into Lutar?" she demanded, a blue tinge spreading over her face. The ice queen was resurfacing. A warning to them all.

"No, my queen."

She was silent a moment. "I'll find out soon enough. How about the thralls? Did you dispose of them?"

He nodded. "I found the one who'd fled hiding in the woods. He was eliminated along with the others."

"Good. This was a wake-up call. I and my sisters have maintained our anonymity for millennia. It's what allows us to operate freely."

"We live in dangerous times," Crowley said. "Hunters, law enforcement—the tools at their disposal are much more effective." He flicked a glance to Maia. Never let it be said that Crowley didn't know how to bend circumstances to his will.

"Vampires have become too noticeable," Maia said, picking up on his cue. "They put us at risk."

Electra nodded. "We should exercise tight control on their numbers. In the old days, it didn't matter if a few vampires were discovered. The investigators were few. They had limited weapons at their disposal."

"But that's no longer the case," Crowley said. "We face a more challenging reality and must adapt to it."

"Your warnings were justified," she conceded. "You set out the new course. We should adopt this . . ."

"Crowley Doctrine has a nice ring to it," he suggested helpfully.

She arched a supercilious eyebrow, but nodded acceptance. "I'll inform my sisters to implement it as well. Vampires are on the hunters' radar now. Most are ill-suited to our present demands and can be safely eliminated."

"A wise move," he said, happy to support her. "We should select carefully those to be elevated to vampire status, choosing only those with the proper skills."

"It's time to cull the herd," she agreed. "You know my requirements. Those who don't meet them . . ."

He bowed. _Finally_. Electra was seeing sense. Little mouse was remaining quiet throughout their discussion. He'd been surprised her precious moose hadn't been at the castle. Had she been the cause? _A dangerous game to play when your sister is Astrena_. No wonder she wanted his help.

The mauve brocade curtain behind Electra rustled. Crowley watched curiously as a small shape scampered down the curtain. Darting across the room, it hid behind the curtain in the alcove. That had to be Scarbo. Crowley had never gotten a proper look at him, but Maia had told him about Electra's personal imp. She used him to torture victims who rebelled against her. Nasty piece of work. Crowley didn't like anyone who wouldn't stand still. That demon was too slippery by half.

Lutar let out a moan. Slowly the fire beneath his skin dissipated. Electra sat down next to him and caressed his face. Pressing her hand onto his forehead, Electra closed her eyes and murmured a chant, probably ancient Greek.

"What's she doing now?" Crowley muttered to Maia.

"Capturing his memories before she erases them," Maia murmured back. "She can see what he saw, read his thoughts—"

Electra's eyes snapped open. "Neal!" she shrieked, in a howl which made even Crowley's skin crawl. "You did this!" Her skin blurred into an ice-blue mist surrounding her body. She jumped up, assuming the form Crowley associated with Astrena. Ten feet of ice-blue crystals and gas. A goddess, overwhelmingly beautiful and deadly. She stretched out her arms.

Maia grew pale. "She'll consume him."

Bloody hell. Just when he thought he'd convinced her. "Oh, Radiant One. A word if you don't mind."

She stared down at him, solidifying slightly. "Speak," she said in a voice low as thunder which reverberated throughout the room.

"Didn't we just agree on the Crowley Doctrine? How is killing Neal going to accomplish that? You don't even know for sure he was the one who used the knife. Neal's a thief and an artist. As a slice-and-dice man, he's worthless. His boss Burke is probably with him right now. You kill him with your blue mumbo-jumbo, aren't you advertising your presence?"

She gradually shrank to her normal form. "Peter and Dean were also present at the castle," she conceded.

"Do you intend to kill them too?" Crowley adopted his most reasonable tone. "Let's discuss this a moment, shall we, before bringing the full force of hunters and the FBI upon us."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Hey, Neal, you okay?"

Neal had dropped to his knees and appeared rooted in place. When he didn't answer, Dean strode over and shook his shoulder. "Snap out of it!"

Neal turned his head to face Dean and swallowed. His face was pale and sweaty. He had the same spooked expression Sam got when he'd had a vision.

"What did you see?" Sam demanded.

Neal pushed a shaky hand through his hair. "That same ice figure who took hold when Lutar attacked me. She must have made a bigger impression than I realized." He glanced over at them and made a half-ass attempt at a smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out. She's gone now."

Dean exchanged looks with Sam. Which one of them should give him the bad news?

"Don't be too quick to dismiss what you saw," Sam cautioned. Good, he should be the one to explain. Being empathetic was Sam's specialty, not Dean's. "You remember those visions I told you about?"

Dean looked at his brother with surprise. It had taken months before Sam confided in Dean, his brother, the one who'd taken care of him since he was a baby. Neal he'd only known a few months. Dean clamped down on the frustration, saving the venting for another time. It was a sign of progress that Sam was willing to discuss it.

Sam asked Neal to describe the figure and compare it with what he saw when Lutar had him in his grasp. The images appeared identical.

"It was probably just a flashback," Neal said, trying to dismiss it. Dean didn't blame him. Who'd want to think he was possessed by an ice queen, maybe Astrena herself.

"Yeah, that could be it," Sam agreed, "but there could be something else going on. We know pure-bloods are created by Astrena. That was likely her you saw. You're an artist. Supposedly she feeds off them. This could be the way she establishes a link."

"If it happens again, don't keep it bottled up inside," Dean said, sparing a glance at Sam, "like some dumbasses I know."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal returned to his room for a quick shower before leaving for the hospital. Crashing Peter's Mustang on the way to see Angela was off the table.

Was it really a flashback? He should know. He'd experienced enough of them. From the time he'd been kidnapped as a child, he'd been predisposed to them. The past few weeks he'd had nightmares about the virtual reality world he'd been held prisoner in. The therapist who'd worked with him, Jacob Nussbaum, had warned that the earlier bouts meant he'd be more susceptible.

But this didn't seem like any of the others. He'd never felt such a sense of hatred and well, evil, for lack of a better word. His chest still hurt from where her hair had touched him.

Neal went into the bathroom and stripped off his shirt. His chest was marked with red spots about a half-inch in diameter. He pressed one gingerly. It was sore to the touch, but the skin wasn't broken. Psychosomatic symptoms? Leftover gift from Lutar? He used the bathroom mirror to check his back, and it also had a few marks. But even as he was staring at them, they began to fade. Within a couple of minutes they vanished.

Neal returned to the bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. What was going on? Up to now, he'd been skeptical there actually was a goddess Astrena. Had Lutar somehow planted a vision of her inside his head?

With an effort, Neal relegated all thoughts about her to the dustbin. Angela was counting on him. Dean had said pure-bloods could pull mind control tricks. That's what it must have been. Neal had just banished the fake memories planted by the Mansfelds. That goddess didn't realize who she was dealing with.

* * *

 _Notes: Brave words, Neal, but you don't know who you're dealing with either. Neal's yet to figure out just how much trouble he's in, but that will change by the end of the story. His biggest quandary at the moment is what to tell Peter. Next week in Chapter 8: The Ties That Bind, he'll have that discussion as well as visit Angela while Dean will seek advice from Peter._

 _In this series, Peter, Neal, Dean, and Sam are all stepping out of their comfort zones. Now Maia appears to be crossing lines too. I've written about her and Chloe for our blog in a post called "Bloodlines: A Female Perspective."_

 _ _The small demon that Crowley saw in Electra's bedroom was described by the nineteenth century poet Aloysius Bertrand in Gaspard de la Nuit, a collection of prose poems. Scarbo is also the name of a devilishly difficult piano piece by Maurice Ravel. Scarbo loves to visit artists by night and torment them—clearly he must be in alliance with Astrena.__

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	8. The Ties That Bind

**Chapter 8: The Ties That Bind**

 **Thursday, August 4, 2005.**

Berkeley Medical Center was in the town of Martinsburg, a twenty minute drive from Shepherdstown. When Neal arrived at Angela's floor, he found Michael standing outside her room. He'd been texting Neal updates throughout the afternoon. The last bulletin Neal had received, he was still waiting for test results. By the smile on his face, it was plain he'd gotten his answer.

"They're negative!" he said, his voice a rough whisper. He looked like he wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

With that, the blackest of the dark clouds hanging over Neal vanished. Sexual molestation could be crossed off.

"The doctor assured me she hadn't had sex in at least twenty-four hours." Michael chuckled sheepishly. "With the fight we had last night, there was no chance of that between us. I guess I should be grateful. It simplified the diagnosis."

"How much does Angela remember?"

"She recalls wanting to go see Lutar, but she can't figure out why. As for the days before . . . she remembers everything. How she acted. What she said." Michael lowered his voice still further. "She feels wretched about what happened. I've been telling her it was the drug's fault."

Neal promised to do the same.

A white-haired doctor came out of her room. He had a comforting, grandfatherly air about him which was exactly what Angela needed. Dr. Masius explained that the effects of the barbiturate she'd been given had worn off. They wanted to keep her overnight for observation, but she should be able to go home tomorrow morning.

When Neal and Michael entered the room, she was sitting upright in bed. Neal gave bonus points to the hospital for providing her with a hospital gown in pistachio green with tropical flowers.

Her smile was as bright as the colors in her gown when she saw them. "My heroes!" she exclaimed.

After a flurry of hugs, Angela ordered Neal to sit next to her for what she called her interrogation. Michael perched on the edge of the bed next to her, keeping his arm around her.

"Have you spoken with Mom?" was the question on the top of her list.

"Not yet," Neal admitted. "Peter had advised holding off for a few hours before ringing the panic alarm. We planned to call her this evening."

"Thank you, Peter," she said, letting out her breath in a whoosh of ir. "I don't think there's any reason for her to know about this, do you?"

"That's your call," he said. After all the times Neal had hidden injuries from his relatives, he was the last one to give her advice.

She nodded gratefully. "I don't want Mom or any of my other relatives to know."

 _Spoken like a true Caffrey._

"Mom was worried about my safety in New York City. If she knew what happened here, she'd want me to move back in with her."

Michael squeezed her shoulder. "You got me as your protector. I'll make sure Paige gets the message you're in safe hands."

Angela pulled his face toward her for a kiss which left no doubts about her current state of bliss. Neal could report to Mozzie that his love guru services wouldn't be required.

"The police came by a half-hour ago," Michael said after they came up for air. "They questioned me about those bottles you found in Lutar's room."

"Angela, had you ever seen them?" Neal asked.

"Only once. It was during a dulcimer workshop. I saw him take a small purple bottle out of his pocket, but I didn't notice what he did with it." Her face grew anxious. "I wish I knew how long he'd been drugging me."

"It couldn't have been very long," Neal assured her. "When you called me a week ago you sounded like your usual Funny Bunny self."

She smiled gratefully. "Don't worry, I'll be back. I wish I had a magic potion to make me forget how I treated Michael . . . How I behaved toward you." She looked up at Michael. "The words I used—"

He kissed her. "That magic potion must have worked. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Did Lutar ask you to go to him?" Neal asked, even as he hated having to bring it up.

"I don't think so," she admitted in a small voice. "It just popped into my head. Last night, Michael and I were watching _Lost in Translation_ on TV." She turned to face Michael. "You looked so miserable. I thought moving in with Lutar would be the perfect solution. When I think back, I'm appalled. How could I have possibly considered—"

"Shush," Michael quieted her. "That was the drug talking."

She nodded. "I left around four o'clock in the morning after lying awake most of the night. I went into the bathroom to give Lutar a call. I remember being surprised he wasn't asleep. He came and picked me up." She turned to Neal. "As I told the doctor, Lutar didn't come on to me. We kissed but it went no further. We had a drink—that must have been when he gave me the barbiturate. I became so sleepy, I barely remember him taking me to the guest bedroom."

Angela was worried about her class but the kids hadn't suffered from her lack of attention. Michael planned to stay in Shepherdstown with her the following week and would help finish the props. After the performance they'd return to New York together.

Neal and Michael steered the conversation onto the musical production. Angela was happy to discuss the plans she had to bring her teaching experience to the kids in New York City. She wanted to create similar programs in disadvantaged neighborhoods. Her ambition was to write children's musicals featuring animal characters as a way of bridging cultural differences. Angela could dream big. She was already coaxing them to help, and had her eyes on Henry's boyfriend Eric who was a skilled carpenter.

How could they refuse her anything? Angela had no idea how close she'd come to being cast as Mina, and Neal vowed she'd never find out.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal called Peter from the hospital with the good news about Angela and that he'd fill him in when he was back in the inn. He suggested Peter's room where they could speak in privacy.

It wasn't a conversation Neal was looking forward to. Most of the time he could predict Peter's reaction, but this wasn't one of them. Neal grabbed a couple of coffees from the courtesy bar on the way up, although Peter might require something stiffer once he heard.

Peter's room was equipped with a small couch. No need for a fire in the fireplace, but it was a cozy place to chat. The quilted counterpane and Early American furnishings made the room seem inviting, especially after the Gothic horror they'd experienced. It was the kind of atmosphere Angela needed. Neal was glad Michael had booked a room for them to stay at the inn over the weekend.

After asking him about Angela, Peter updated him on the case. As expected, Max Ganesh would be in charge of the operation. Peter's account to Max of what had occurred was somewhat incomplete but there were no lies. Peter and Neal _had_ gone to the castle to question Lutar about Angela. Lutar _had_ left and his whereabouts were unknown.

"Sam's made a full recovery," Neal said. "We came back to find him making up for lost meals. We're going to celebrate tonight at the Town Run Brewing Company. It's your kind of place—brews, comfort food."

"—but not yours."

"They have a pool table. Dean may challenge me to a grudge match. Or we could take 'em on at poker." Neal's words trailed off as he reconsidered. This might not be the best time. Better to wait till Peter had several beers under his belt. There'd be less chance of him freaking out.

They were heading back to New York for the most complicated con Neal had ever run. Would Peter slam the brakes on it? But there was that annoying conscience tapping him on the shoulder, reminding him of the promise he'd made. No more secrets. Not for anything work related. And he had to be honest. This could have an impact.

"You said Angela's fine, so you can't be worried about her," Peter prompted. "How about you? Anything I should know?"

"Yeah, I had a second . . . I don't know what to call it. Attack? Vision? Flashback?" Neal described what had occurred in the Winchesters' room. "I haven't had a recurrence. Those red splotches I saw haven't returned."

He studied Peter for his reaction, and as expected, he looked like he needed an antacid. Peter already had so much stuff to deal with, and now Neal was adding to his stack.

Peter set down his coffee cup carefully and exhaled, his lips tightening into a hard line. "Dean thinks Lutar might have been the conduit for Astrena to target you. Has Angela had any visions?"

"I asked her about any hallucinations or weird dreams when I questioned her about the side effects of the drug. She hasn't had any. How about you? Did you have any visions when Lutar attacked you?"

He nodded. "Perhaps his personal version of Hell. I felt like I was being scorched on the surface of the sun."

"Similar to my experience."

"With one big difference. There was no blue figure, no ice queen in mine. The second event could have been a flashback—"

"Exactly," Neal said, pouncing on his words. "If it happens again, I could discuss it with Doc Jacob."

Peter frowned. "You didn't let me finish. Your therapist won't be much help if it's Astrena, and a flashback wouldn't cause those red splotches you saw."

"Taking the worst case scenario, if Astrena is interested in me, I could play the optimist that she realizes my art isn't up to her standard, and she'll give up on me."

"That's one possibility. She could also decide you're the artist of her dreams."

Neal winced. "It took months for the Connecticut artist to show symptoms. I feel exceptionally healthy. So even if she has linked to me, it could be years before anything happens. I can't live my life sitting around waiting for another vision. Let's not blow this out of proportion." Neal knew he was talking as much to himself as to Peter. He couldn't let himself relive the terror of that encounter with Lutar. It was just a nightmare. It hadn't really happened. Right.

 **That evening at the Town Run Brewing Company.**

Neal appeared determined to not let thoughts about Astrena cast a damper on what was supposed to be a celebration party. Peter was hardly in a party mood after hearing his report. But for Neal's sake, he did his best to comply. He could have easily hidden that second vision or dismissed it as a random fluke. The old Neal would have. That alone should be worth a toast.

The hangout Neal had found for their final night was a lively place even on a Thursday night. It defied labels. Bar didn't feel right. Perhaps frat house basement. Their innkeeper had confirmed it had a good kitchen. The decor might best be called industrial grunge. Video machines. Pool tables. A small stage indicated they must have live performances.

"I noticed a karaoke machine," Neal said with a nod to the stage. "Peter, I'm informed by highly reputable witnesses that you and Dean put on a mean performance in South Jersey. Sam and I missed out last time. Any chance of a do-over?"

"Not when there are chorizo sliders in front of me," Peter protested, keeping his tone light. If Neal could bury his fears, for one evening he was determined to do the same. They both needed a timeout.

As if to prove he wasn't wasting away, Neal loaded the table with wings and ribs. Even the salad came with grilled chicken. Sam was especially appreciative. His appetite had returned with a vengeance.

"How about if I order a round of waffle fries?" Neal offered, checking the menu. "They come loaded with Cheddar, sour cream, and bacon."

"Hell, _I'll_ sing for that," Dean said. "Where's my guitar?"

Sam snorted. "Since when have you needed one?" He turned to them. "Dean can rock an air guitar, sometimes even in our car." He went on to explain that Dean liked to belt out songs when they were driving along the highway. Peter noticed how the corner of Neal's mouth twitched at the news. Sam's words were being stored in Neal's memory vault for future use.

After a few brews and sliders, Peter was able to get more into the mood. They toasted Angela's return to sanity, Michael's return to blissful happiness, and even tossed in one for Lutar being out of the picture.

"Where are you off to next?" Neal asked Sam.

"We're heading back your way. Chloe wants us to stop off in New York."

"A day or two of R&R will do us both good before heading for the next job," Dean said and added with a grin, "Particularly since Maia's coming down."

Sam's face brightened. "She is? I haven't heard anything about it."

"Chloe told me this evening when I called her. Maia may have wanted to surprise you. But this shouldn't come as a shock. The way she's been calling you, I expected her to put on a nurse uniform and come down to hold your hand. Peony—that's the woman who owns the townhouse—is extending the friends and family discount to Maia, too, so I guess you won't have to sleep in the car."

Peter hadn't heard of Peony, but the others clued him in. She ran a B&B in a brownstone near Columbia and was also head of a Wicca coven. Her sister Wisteria was in Chloe's New Haven coven. It made Peter wonder if covens had become the new sororities. Even more surprising was that Neal intended to ask Chloe about potions to protect him from Astrena.

At first Peter thought Neal was joking, but Neal insisted he wasn't. And Peter had to concede he had a good reason to give her a second chance. Thanks to Chloe's anti-vamp essence, Lutar hadn't smelled Neal in the house. Peter might need to reappraise how much of a menace Chloe was to society. If Neal was being haunted by Astrena, he didn't have a lot of good options.

Billiards was a hot discussion topic over dinner. Dean wanted to even the score after Neal beat him in Buttonwood and Peter had pool on his bucket list. Neal had become an expert in trick shots during the years of his misguided youth and offered to give a demonstration.

After the food was devastated, everyone joined in for a master class. Concerns about Astrena didn't appear to hamper Neal's game. He reeled off one joke after another while displaying the dexterity of a virtuoso with the cue stick. But all that indicated was that his con artist skills were once more fully operational. Peter supposed he should be happy. Their trip to Shepherdstown was originally intended to test Neal's readiness. By that standard it was a success.

When Peter headed to the bar to get another beer, Dean followed him.

"It's gonna take Sam a while to learn the machine gun shot," Dean said, taking a seat at the counter, "and there's something I've wanted to ask you."

"What's on your mind?" Peter asked, pulling over a bar stool. "Astrena?"

"Not so much her as Sam. Neal reminds me a little of him. They have this secret side they don't show to others. Neal hides it under a smartass exterior. Sam buries himself underneath the shell of a quiet nerd. Neither one lets walls down easily. I figured Neal simply liked giving off a man of mystery vibe. Now I know he was a thief. How'd he wind up working at the FBI?"

"There are very few who know about Neal's former life," Peter cautioned. "It's a mark of his trust in you that he revealed it. Neal turned over a new leaf. He's putting his expertise to good use, and the team he works with values his contributions. But it wasn't easy to make the change. Those walls you mentioned took a long time to be dismantled. We've had our ups and downs in learning to trust each other."

"Not the way I see it," Dean countered. "He told you straight off about that second whacked-out vision he had." He snorted. "No way would Sam have told me. What's your secret, man?"

Neal a role model for being open? That was a new one. If Dean only knew a fraction of the issues they'd had over Neal's secrets . . . "We've both had to put sweat into the game. Recently we made a breakthrough, but only after some difficult moments."

"Then you understand where I'm coming from." Dean huffed his frustration. "Sam and me . . ." He paused to glance at his brother. Sam was laughing with Neal about something while racking the balls. "We're constantly working jobs, taking care of things. We spend far too much time together than can be healthy. But can I get him to confide in me? No way. If something's troubling him, I'm the last person he'll talk to."

"Are you sure you're not overstating the problem?"

"Not possible. Last year he started having premonitions, but it took months before I could drag it out of him what was going on. The worst part is I know straight off when something's not right." He locked eyes on Peter, a frown on his face. "You got any tips? 'Cause what I'm doing isn't working."

"I think what's helped us over the past month is that Neal recognized how destructive keeping secrets can be. If Sam's like Neal, he's doing it to protect you, and that makes it even tougher to fight. You have to prove to him that by not telling you he's harming both himself and you."

Dean didn't look convinced.

"Sam will come around. It's up to you to be patient and keep chipping away. I know it's tough. I feel like ramming my head against the wall sometimes and say why do I have to be the grown-up? You were forced to assume that role when you were still a kid yourself. That's a helluva long time to build up resentment and frustration."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Sam senses that which makes it worse. He feels guilty for all the responsibility that's been shoved on your shoulders. It doesn't make your job any easier but knowing the source of the problem may help."

Dean nodded, his eyes focused on his beer. Peter shuddered when he thought of the kind of lives they must have led as kids with their dad off hunting monsters. How young had Dean been when he first went hunting? A lot of dark memories to be burdened with.

Was this a good time? Dean didn't have that chip on his shoulder that he so often displayed. Peter felt more in the zone with him than ever before. If he didn't speak up now, he might not have another chance.

"I'd like your help on something," Peter ventured, treading carefully.

Dean turned to eye him curiously. "On what? You got wind of another demon?"

"God, no. I've got too many already. Is Sam still having the premonitions?"

"Yeah. Now when he gets them, they—at least the ones I hear about—are for upcoming attacks. Sam tells me 'cause he knows we need to haul ass to save someone."

"And do you know why he's getting them?"

"No," Dean admitted, "and it worries the hell out of me."

"But you continue to do your jobs, even with this hanging over your heads."

He shrugged. "We have no choice. That's the way it is. We work one demon at a time, knowing there's always more out there."

That wasn't a comforting thought. "Now Neal may have this Astrena—I don't know what to call it—link, curse? I don't have a clue on how to keep him safe. If we were dealing with ordinary criminals, I'd put the team on the case, and we'd work to catch them. Any suggestions on how to fight a goddess?"

He tightened his lips for a moment. "You fight fire with fire. It's the same with magic. That's where we come in, and you may not like hearing it, but Chloe too. Sometimes it's a special weapon, or a potion, or a spell, but there's always something."

"Every dragon has a weak spot?"

Dean chuckled. "That's one monster we haven't had to confront yet, but it's a good way to look at it."

 **Federal Building. August 5, 2005. Friday afternoon.**

"You're telling me Lutar poofed away like one of the ghasts in my Arkham Files stories?" Diana stood back, staring incredulously at him as Neal described Lutar's last moments. Neal knew in advance that would be her reaction.

When he and Peter arrived back in New York, they went straight to the office. The team hadn't been idle while they were away. Travis had discovered that Lutar's past had been a fabrication. There were no records of him at the university he'd supposedly attended. As for Nesarat Holdings, the company which had purchased Lutar's estate, they'd been provided the funds through an agent acting on behalf of a client in Italy. It would take time to follow the money trail, but so far Jones had found nothing suspicious in the transaction.

The flash enclosure which had been left in the castle provided confirmation of identity fraud for over two hundred names. The attacks appeared to have started three weeks ago, tying in with Lutar's arrival in Shepherdstown. Crowley's link to the frauds had given Jones a new mission. He'd been the agent to initially report the Dutchman they later identified as Hagen. He was now taking aim on Crowley's fraud operation.

When Hagen had been an art forger, it had taken over a decade to bring him to justice. Realistically what were their odds of success with a demon? Should Jones apprentice himself out to the Winchesters? Would the brothers need to conduct hunter boot camp for the team?

And then there was the gigantic problem that was Astrena. Dean freely admitted he knew of no way to capture a Greek goddess. Crowley's involvement with identify fraud implied she could be linked to the operation as well.

During the briefing Neal and Peter discussed what happened to Lutar and the other vampires. At Peter's insistence, Neal described the image he'd seen in his head. The events of that day sounded so incredible, he was surprised Diana didn't tease him about it. Instead, after the briefing she cornered him in the breakroom for a detailed description of the gory details, as she put it. Was she taking notes to use the ideas in her stories? Plot bunnies she called them. Would Angela enjoy being thought of as a plot bunny? Neal had warned everyone not to ever tell her the truth about the Gothic horror tale she'd starred in.

"You realize that when I had the ghast disintegrate into a column of smoke, I never expected that something like that would actually happen," Diana admitted.

"Dean's seen it happen before with certain types of demons." Neal poured himself a cup of coffee from White Collar's ancient coffeemaker. At the inn they'd had freshly roasted coffee from the Lost Dog Coffee Bar. He could still taste the dense aromatic aroma of the Papua New Guinea blend they'd had this morning—

Diana snapped her fingers. "Focus, Caffrey. Tell me more about this Van Helsing character."

He stared at her. "Is that what you call Dean?"

"Sure. Did you see the movie _Van Helsing_ with Hugh Jackman? The way you described Dean makes him sound like a modern version of Van Helsing."

Neal plastered a smile he didn't feel on his face. This was one conversation he'd never repeat to Dean. The man already thought he was God's gift to women.

"I was thinking, I should take a break from Arkham Files," she continued. "I could write the White Collar version of Dracula instead. We're short on women, though—a lamentable oversight. Tricia could play Lucy. I guess you'd have to be Mina."

"Not happening," Neal insisted, shaking his head. "Jones would be much better."

She snorted. "I'll tell him it was your idea."

"Who'll be Dracula?"

"That's obvious, isn't it? White Collar's resident Vulcan, Travis."

"He'd probably love the part. Will you play one of Dracula's sisters?"

"Not me," she scoffed. "I'm claiming the role of Van Helsing."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On Saturday mornings, Neal took training in kung fu from the owner of the Aloha Emporium, Billy Feng. Billy had started teaching him as therapy to counteract the Mansfelds' brainwashing. Now Neal hoped Billy would help exorcise any lingering traces of Astrena.

Billy was instructing Neal in the Way of the Orchid, a personal style of fighting he'd developed with his daughter Maggie. Martial arts and orchids appeared a mismatch to most people but not to Billy. In addition to being Mozzie's business partner in the Hawaiian organic honey business, he was also an expert on orchids.

Maggie was teaching a variant of the technique to a women's group. Among the participants were Sara and Mozzie's girlfriend Janet. For the upcoming con, Sara would play a key role where she'd pretend to fall for Neal in order to spy on his activities while he'd also try to take advantage of her. The Way of the Orchid, which was all about the art of deception and concealment, could prove useful for both of them.

No one knew that he and Sara planned to test the actual dating waters. To foil the would-be matchmakers in their lives, they'd decided to keep their interest in each other a secret. Only a couple of weeks ago, Neal had disclosed his criminal past to Sara. What would she say when she heard about vampires and witches? Or Astrena? Sara knew he had secrets, but nothing like this.

The bamboo door chimes made a soft wooden tinkle as Neal opened the door to the emporium. In the back of the store, space had been carved out for a small café and that's where Neal immediately looked. Saturday meant that waffles with lilikoi butter were on the menu and Mozzie would undoubtedly be acquiring sustenance for the upcoming session.

He'd called the previous night that he'd returned home. His friend in Rome, Luchino, had searched the Vatican archives for accounts of Astrena. Mozzie was convinced Vatican authorities had expurgated many of the reports as blasphemy. But then, Mozzie saw conspiracies everywhere.

Neal found his conspiracy expert as expected with a plate of waffles in front of him, but Mozzie wasn't having breakfast alone. That Billy was there too wasn't a surprise but Chloe?

When Billy spotted Neal, he stood up and waved him over. "I just made a fresh pot of Kona coffee. Come and join us." Billy called out to his assistant Steve to fetch Neal a mug. "Our lesson may be delayed. I've been having a fascinating conversation with Chloe."

"I called her last night and suggested she join us," Mozzie explained.

"Peony hadn't heard of Astrena," Chloe said, "but she'd read about the ancient Greeks' belief in the magical properties of wildflowers. Supposedly orchids are particularly potent. Peony reasoned that if Astrena has a connection to orchids, then orchids could be key to breaking any psychic link she establishes."

Neal looked at Billy warily. "Do you know about Astrena?"

A smile crossed Billy's face. "I do now. Mozzie's brought me up to speed."

"Luchino told me about a report from a Jesuit priest writing in the seventeenth century. He believed the goddess could bewitch flowers. Even more relevant is one account that she could place someone's soul into an orchid bloom."

"What are you saying, Mozz? That I'll turn into a flower?" Neal asked incredulously.

"Of course not. Although, with Astrena, who knows? Now pay attention. You remember those fire orchids we found last month in Jenny Jump State Forest. They could have contained pure-blood vampires who emerged from them like butterflies from their chrysalis."

"And we have other evidence of orchids being used," Chloe added. "An orchid was found in the hex bag which was used to free Curtis Hagen from prison."

Neal took a large glug of coffee. This was heady stuff for first thing in the morning. Had Lutar's essence been placed back into an orchid from where he could once more emerge?

"When I asked Peony for help with orchids, she referred me to Billy," Chloe said.

"Peony's a dear," Billy said. "She's also prone to exaggeration." His broad face expressed gentle amusement. "I've never researched the magical properties of orchids, although I've heard about the legends. In Greece there are tales of how orchids can be used to determine the sex of your child, increase your fertility—"

"—and strengthen your sexual prowess," Mozzie pointed out, interrupting. "I've heard the legends as well. So far, I must admit the jury is out."

Neal eyed his friend warily. Mozzie was constantly tempted to experiment with drugs. Had he embarked on a new line of research with his girlfriend Janet? Should Neal worry that Mozzie could now be an orchid-eater? Compared with some of his other experiments, this one seemed fairly innocuous. But on the other hand, those fire orchids which appeared to be linked to the pure-bloods . . . What would happen if he ingested one of those?

"When you came in, I was telling them I may be able to provide some assistance," Billy said, wisely refraining from any comments on Mozzie's experiment. "When I lived in Macao, I studied under a master orchidologist. He told me about a Japanese botanist of the late eighteenth century named Ono Ranzan."

"Ah yes," Mozzie said. "The Japanese Linnaeus."

Billy nodded. "The very same. Ono traveled throughout Asia and reportedly had access to botanical works which have now disappeared. He wrote a book on the occult uses of orchids."

Chloe was scribbling notes at a furious pace. "Do you know of any copies?"

Billy shook his head. "The book my teacher had seen was destroyed during the bombing of Tokyo in the Second World War."

At Chloe's look of dismay, Mozzie patted her arm. "Don't lose hope. Some of Ono's works exist in translations."

"It's possible I may have more about the book in my notes," Billy said. "They're upstairs in my library."

When Billy and Mozzie left to check, Neal thanked Chloe for her vampire-masking oil. "Angela and I are both in your debt."

"Dean and Sam arrived yesterday and filled me in on what went on." She lowered her voice. "Dean asked me if there was a way to detect a psychic connection to Astrena."

"I never thought I'd need to consult a psychic but if I had faith one actually knew what she was talking about . . ."

She smiled sympathetically. "I know what you mean. When I began writing urban fantasies, I didn't believe for a minute that any of the magic I was describing could actually exist. But now, after what Dean and Sam have told me, and what I'm learning from the covens, I sometimes feel like I'm writing documentaries rather than fiction. Peony has the reputation for being a psychic with a remarkable success ratio. If you'd like to try her out, I'm sure something could be arranged."

Neal hesitated. Had he sunk that low? "Have Dean and Sam had a chance to evaluate her?"

"Not yet. Why don't you come over this afternoon? Bobby's coming to town. He has some news to report."

Neal didn't have any other plans. If Peony pronounced him curse-free, it might not be that significant but Peter wouldn't worry so much.

"Dean told me about those bottles you found in Lutar's room. Have they discovered anything more about them?" Chloe asked.

"The lab's never seen that particular formula before and frankly doesn't even know how to classify it. Perfume? Flavor extract? Drug? I told Angela that it was a new designer drug, and that may be true."

Chloe nodded, looking wistful. "I wish I could have had a chance to test it."

Neal smiled at her. "Then I'll make your day. I didn't give the lab all the bottles I'd discovered. I held a couple back, hoping I could coax you." He assumed a stern expression, cutting short her delighted thanks. "But you have to promise me to keep them out of Mozzie's hand. He'd likely want to test the drug on himself."

"But we may need a volunteer," she pleaded. "Under controlled conditions?"

From out of nowhere Mozzie appeared behind them. "Controlled conditions?" His nose was twitching like a mouse sniffing the aroma of Camembert. He pulled up a chair next to Chloe, and before Neal could say Roquefort, the two were deep into herbs, potions, and infusion techniques.

The fact that Billy had found the name of the book, _The Magical Properties of Orchids_ , only added to their enthusiasm. Mozzie promised to scour the planet in his quest to find a copy.

Billy and Neal headed to the back of the café to refill their coffees. "Mozzie told me about the fire orchids you encountered," Billy said. "I've heard some amazing tales, but his account of vampires being spawned from orchids will take me a while to digest."

"Vampires weren't so much a stretch for me," Neal confessed. "I've seen my share of horror movies, but that flowers could transform to supernatural beings?"

"It's not as well-known, but there are legends about it. Are you familiar with the tale of Orchis in Greek mythology?"

"The satyr who was turned into an orchid by the gods? Mozzie told me about him."

Billy nodded. "There are similar legends in Asia. There can be much wisdom in those old stories." Billy was called away to wait on a customer, leaving Neal to ponder his words. Souls trapped within flowers. Could it actually happen? He bet if he asked Bobby, he would have heard of a case.

When Neal returned to the table, Mozzie and Chloe were deep into a discussion of flower ingredients and potions. Once they began describing the effects they wanted to achieve, Mozzie's eyes took on the rapturous glitter of the newly converted.

Was this the start of a new passion for his effervescent friend? Mozzie had been fixated on all things honey-related since December— a long era in Mozzie's warped space-time continuum. He was overdue. Potions would have a natural appeal for a man who'd been fascinated by the effects of drugs for as long as Neal had known him. If it wasn't for the threat of a curse hanging over him, Neal would have gladly kept Mozzie at arm's length from anything associated with alchemy and the occult. Why couldn't this continue to be Mozzie's Golden Age of Bees and Honey? Would Chloe's arrival in town act like a devastating asteroid, crushing bees in its wake and ushering in the Age of Potions?

Neal wouldn't be able to rely on Janet for help. Like Chloe, she was a wildflower enthusiast. Originally Chloe had researched herbs to provide authenticity to her novels. That was the same reason she'd joined a Wiccan coven in New Haven. But what had been a side interest was rapidly turning into a passion.

More than likely Janet had joined Peony's coven along with Chloe. They were both interested in wildflowers. Could Mozzie be next? Were men even allowed in covens or did warlocks have their separate man covens? Although alchemy might serve to dampen Mozzie's enthusiasm for cave slime and space aliens, Neal doubted it. Mozzie would simply merge the interests.

But that was a problem for another day. Chloe had volunteered to investigate the contents of Lutar's bottles. The professionals had provided nothing enlightening. She was their best hope. Chloe had lent a sympathetic ear to his concerns about Astrena. If she could figure out a way to banish her from ever reappearing, she'd earn his undying gratitude. He could put up with Mozzie being a warlock.

"If Janet and I didn't have tickets to a matinée, I'd join you at Peony's," Mozzie said. "She got us tickets for _Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf_ , an intriguing take on reality and illusion." He glanced at Neal. "It could be instructive for what's to come."

Neal caught the reference. The con was about to begin. All they were waiting for was Peter's permission to offer the Braque for sale.

Chloe looked at them curiously but didn't pry. Neal liked that about her and suspected Dean appreciated it even more. She respected boundaries. "Maia's arriving this afternoon," she said, switching topics as if to prove she knew theirs was off limits. "We thought it would be fun to go somewhere together. Dean's into rock music. Any suggestions?"

"There's a new club in the Village, called Riffs. I've played there some."

Chloe's eyes widened. "I didn't realize you play too. Does Dean know?"

"I don't think so. Riffs has open mic night on Saturdays. You could give Dean a chance to redeem himself after that rather disastrous karaoke performance in Buttonwood."

"He does have a good voice," she said with a grin, "even if he refuses to ever sing 'Happy Trails' again."

"There's a music shop next door. The owner's a friend of mine. I could supply Dean with a loaner guitar if he needs one."

Could Dean be coaxed to perform? Neal intended to make sure of it. Everyone else would have a date. Sara was out of town. Bianka had been too sick to go to the concert last weekend. This could make up for it. They'd never discussed rock music. What would she think if she knew he used to perform professionally as a member of Urban Legend?

* * *

 _Notes: Neal ventures into unfamiliar territory next week when he attends his first séance. Dean and Sam have had experience with psychics and would tell Neal that, just like with witches, their abilities can be powerful mysterious world of the occult could be considered another shadow world. Like Mozzie's life as a con man, it's little understood by outsiders. I wrote about "Shadow Worlds" this week for our blog._

 _The Town Run is an actual establishment in Shepherdstown. There's a photo of it on the Pinterest board. Ono Ranzan is indeed the Japanese Linnaeus but only Billy knows of his interest in the occult._

 _Thanks for reading and reviewing! Dark Rabbit reaches its conclusion next week in Chapter 9: Open Mic._

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	9. Open Mic

**Chapter 9: Open Mic**

 **Peony's B &B. Saturday, August 6, 2005.**

When it came to psychics, Neal was a skeptic. All the ones he'd met were fellow con artists. His natural inclination was to place Chloe's friend and fellow herbalist Peony Mirliton in the same category.

Neal had contacted Sam for his opinion, and what he heard was surprising. The Winchesters had worked with genuine mediums. Some were able to see into the past. Others had visions of future events. One could read minds. Sam had heard of psychics who could summon spirits and detect psychic auras. As to whether Peony was a charlatan or had the gift, Sam refused to hazard a guess, but he encouraged Neal to give her a chance.

Peony's B&B was ten blocks south of June's mansion, on a residential side street of brownstones. When Neal entered the building, he found himself in a sitting room reminiscent of inns he'd visited in England, with flowered-chintz upholstery and curtains. Peony's passion for herbs was reflected in the antique botanical prints on the walls.

A woman in her fifties with light blond hair, wearing a pink blouse and gray pleated skirt, was seated at a French writing desk. She stood up when Neal opened the door. With a bright smile Peony introduced herself and welcomed him to her inn.

"Chloe's told me all about you," she said, taking him by the arm. "I expect you'll want to come here often to visit. We wouldn't want her to be lonely. Evenings at six we have wine and cheese. Currently I'm serving a lovely blackberry wine I made last fall."

Peony was one of the happiest people he'd ever met. The pink blouse seemed to cast her in a permanent rosy glow. She explained the others had gathered in the rooftop garden and directed him to the staircase.

Neal mounted the four flights of stairs to enter a luxuriant oasis set among the steel and concrete roofs of the surrounding buildings. Dean, Sam, Chloe, and Bobby were sitting around a table underneath a cedar pergola. Honeysuckle vines growing on the lattice framework provided shade from the afternoon sun.

Bobby wasn't normally the most cheerful of fellows, but he was giving a good imitation now. He was sprawled in a comfortable wicker chair with what appeared to be a glass of Peony's blackberry wine in his hand and a mostly demolished ham sandwich on a plate beside him. "So this is what life in Gotham is like?"

"Only if you're lucky," Neal said, taking a seat. "Was that your pickup in front?"

"Yeah, I guess I should wash it next time I come to town." Bobby straightened up and set his glass on the table. "Did you bring it?"

Neal didn't need to ask what he was referring to. Sam had reminded him when they spoke earlier in the day. Neal pulled out from his portfolio the watercolor he'd made of the ice figure and spread it out on the table. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" He'd done his best to convey the image of a woman made of ice-blue crystals surrounded by an aura of mist and fog.

"She's beautiful," Chloe murmured.

"And deadly," Dean said bluntly. "Send us a digital image and we'll circulate it among hunters."

Neal nodded. "I'm not at all sure that's what her face looks like. I only had a vague impression of eyes and bone structure."

"It gives us something to work with," Bobby said. "If this is Astrena, there must be others who are seeing her too."

Neal retrieved the violet bottles from his pocket and handed them to Chloe. "Treat them carefully. These are the last two."

She held one up to the light. "What a beautiful color. Peony's offered to help me test it. Mozzie also called. He's bringing some equipment over tomorrow."

 _And so it begins._ Mozzie would meet Peony. He'd drink blackberry wine . . . Neal predicted by nightfall he would have joined the coven.

"You boys remember Finnerty, the Irish hunter?" Bobby asked. "He's been trying to dig up more dirt on pure-bloods ever since the summer solstice ritual when I first contacted him." He paused to take a sip of the wine. "Never thought I'd like this stuff, but it ain't bad. Anyway, Finnerty confirmed what that vamp Clarence in West Virginia told you. The pure-bloods are promoting a new way of operating where the victims don't even know they've been used as a watering hole."

"If vampires can feed without the vics realizing it, they'd have less reason to hide in isolated nests," Sam pointed out. "They could blend into society while leading a second shadowy life."

Bobby nodded. "It's been bugging me why there are so few vampire reports from Europe. Here in the States we've been going through a vampire baby boom. Fangs live forever unless someone chops off their head. They can create new vamps whenever they want. Why isn't the entire world awash in bloodsuckers?"

"Europe may have more pure-bloods," Dean speculated. "They're doing a better job of controlling the blood lust of the run-of-the-mill fangs."

"Or fangs could be getting culled," Bobby said.

Neal stared at him. "Literally? Like a wildlife management program?"

Bobby shrugged. "That's what Finnerty suspects. He's heard of cases just like what you reported where vamps simply disintegrated."

"There may be some turf war going on," Chloe suggested. "Possibly rival gangs." Her eyes took on a glazed appearance which Neal knew well. Diana got it often. It was whenever she had an idea for her stories. How much of this would wind up in one of Chloe's novels?

"I've been going around in circles about the surgical techniques we've been hearing about," Bobby admitted. "The way Neal and Sam had their blood siphoned off into beakers just don't sound natural for our average fang. Finnerty suggested it might have been collected for Astrena. He believes vamps act as suppliers to the goddess and her sisters. They ship the blood to them for them to sample and select victims. Finnerty's convinced that there's a sister living in the U.K. who's being supplied this way."

Dean picked up the watercolor to study it. "I don't like it. Neal and Sam's blood was collected. Now Neal's having visions, and Sam gets sick at the drop of a hat." When Sam started to protest, he cut him off. "Hear me out. You'd be doing the same thing in my place."

"But I'm not their type," Sam protested. "I'm no artist."

"You read poetry. Maybe that's close enough. Dude, don't look at me that way. I've seen the book you carry around."

"So what?" Sam glared at him. "You read Chloe's novels. That makes you just as likely a suspect."

"Both of you, stop your caterwauling," Bobby said, looking irritated. "Neal fits the pattern better than either of you bozos. He's an artist. Astrena's been in his head twice."

"I spoke with Peony," Chloe said. "She believes she could discover if someone has a psychic link by the aura it would project. Neal, she's available this afternoon if you're interested."

When he didn't answer, Dean appeared to sense some prodding was in order. "We've dealt with countless cases of possession. If it's true Astrena has ensnared you, a psychic could be the easiest way to find out."

"Keep your skepticism," Bobby urged, "but if Peony turns out to be just another wacky witch wannabe, don't give up hope that someone else could have the gift."

A half-hour later, they were seated at a Victorian table in a small reading room off the main lounge. Their psychic guide had yet to appear. Chloe said that Peony used infusions in a silver cauldron to increase her abilities. Despite his doubts, Neal's uneasiness increased as he waited. What if she found something? Should he believe her?

When Peony finally entered the room, she was carrying an ornate silver basin. The Cauldron. He'd seen similar pieces which were manufactured in Germany during the nineteenth century. The sides were embossed with flower and bird motifs.

Peony had draped an oriental shawl over her blouse and wrapped her hair in a dark silk turban. Neal's doubts were skyrocketing by the minute. He never should have mentioned the ice woman. Clearly she was a weird hallucination provoked by stress. Now the event had been blown completely out of proportion. This new openness plainly had severe drawbacks which he intended to bring up to Peter at the first opportunity.

He took a breath, feeling better. A logical analysis. Now he could sit back, relax, and enjoy the séance. He wouldn't call Peony a charlatan, but any indication of paranormal activity had to be a parlor trick.

When she placed the cauldron on the center of the table, Neal leaned forward to peer inside. It was filled with a steaming-hot cloudy liquid. The fragrance was quite strong, and he had to fight the urge to sneeze. He could detect rosemary and mint.

"Relax, everyone," Peony said in a theatrical tone. "Make your minds as blank as possible." She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and began murmuring to herself in Latin. Neal couldn't catch all the words, but it sounded like an invocation. He glanced around the table. Chloe also had her eyes closed and was whispering something. He couldn't figure out what language it was. Was she making it up? Dean was rolling his eyes at Sam. He appeared ready to bolt. Sam was wearing his typical stressed, end-of-the-world-is-at-hand expression. He could rival Peter for worried frowns. Bobby was sitting in sour resignation. One look at Bobby and you just knew that no matter what the outcome was, it wouldn't be good.

If there was any astral presence floating around, Neal wasn't seeing it. The only impression he was getting was a gigantic headache from the infusion which became more cloying with every second. The air had become oppressive. If it didn't stop soon, Neal would have to leave. The throbbing in the back of his head became more vicious. He winced at a particularly sharp stab.

Peony's eyes snapped open. She spread out her arms, shaking her fingers and making the silver bracelets on her arms tinkle loudly. Headache forgotten, Neal stared at her. Abruptly she slapped her palms together and pointed at Sam. "There!"

A jet of pale blue gas was streaming from the back of Sam's head into the floral wallpaper behind him.

"What the . . ." Dean muttered. "You too?"

Jingling her bracelets even more loudly, Peony whirled to face Neal and locked her eyes on him. She pointed straight at him, just like she had with Sam. Neal felt as if his head would split in two.

Bobby scowled. "Balls. She's got her hooks into both of you."

The aura, projection, or whatever it was lasted about a minute before it vanished. Once it did, Neal's headache disappeared as well. Sam said he'd experienced a similar headache, but otherwise they wouldn't have known anything was wrong.

"Those are the strongest astral links I've ever been able to render visible," Peony said, appearing awe-struck at what she'd just accomplished. Neal's own thoughts were chaotic. The impossible was true. Some goddess he'd never heard of till a month ago had was wired into him. The skin at the back of his neck went cold and clammy. He'd seen the blue plume of gas coming out of Sam's head. That must have been what he looked like as well.

Bobby took charge afterward, requesting to speak in private with Neal and the brothers. Peony offered them the use of the reading room and invited Chloe to join her in the kitchen for a "cleansing ritual on the cauldron." Neal was relieved to see it carried away.

Bobby stood up to close the door. "Boys, I don't like this any better than you do, but you gotta face facts. First the blood siphoning, now Neal's visions of Astrena. I've seen similar directional auras before. They're neon signposts of a psychic link. Someone's established a private line to your skulls, and it ain't the tooth fairy."

Dean took a long breath. "Sam, I know sharing isn't exactly how you like to operate but _just this once_ don't make me kick your butt before you spill what's going on."

"I wasn't trying to keep you in the dark," Sam protested. "Wouldn't I feel something if there was a psychic link?"

Bobby exhaled and took out a worn leather-bound notebook from his shirt pocket. "Let's go back to Buttonwood. That was . . . April 9. The fangs had their straws in you and, from what I heard, sucked out a sizable amount. Your blood was left at the scene. The hunters who cleaned up the place afterward said that the jars were gone. We assumed other fangs returned to the nest and feasted on it before they moved out."

"What if instead the vamps sent it special delivery to Astrena?" Dean asked. "Any weirdness you two may have been hiding that you want to 'fess up to?"

"Lay it out in the open, no matter how insignificant it seems," Bobby seconded.

Sam hesitated and flicked a glance at Neal. "Around the time we investigated that witch in Simsbury, I was having dreams of a woman." He winced at Dean's barely suppressed curse. "I never saw her face. She was always covered with a veil. When Neal and I interviewed the artist's widow, she described somewhat similar dreams her husband was having."

"And you didn't think it was worth mentioning!" Dean barked. The exasperation in his face reminded Neal of many a similar look Peter had given him.

"I figured I was just horny," Sam protested with a shrug. "It's been a long time since Jessica. I mentioned it to Neal. It was crazy to think there was any connection to that artist. In any case, that was months ago. I haven't seen her since sometime in June."

"What about you, Neal?" Bobby asked. "Did any mystery woman enter your dreams?"

"There was one," Neal admitted reluctantly. "I dreamed of a blonde sitting beside Mozart in front of a harpsichord for a few nights around the same time Sam was having his dreams. I compared notes with Sam. When we heard about the artist, it was a little freaky."

"Ya think?" Dean said sarcastically.

"But we weren't wasting away," Sam pointed out. "I have no talent for art. Neither one of us was having any luck in the romance department . . ."

"I might buy that," Bobby said, "but for the fact that Sam's been plagued by a series of illnesses and injuries."

"That's not right!" Sam objected.

"Son, you gotta be honest. There was that period back in May when it seemed like every case you went on, you got injured."

"But that's over now."

Dean slapped his hand on the table. "How am I supposed to react to this kind of B.S. coming from someone who's been laid up for two days, so sick he couldn't even haul his ass out of bed."

"That was different," Sam mumbled. "It was the flu."

"Are you having any dreams now?" Bobby asked, his eyes darting from one to the other.

"I haven't dreamed of my Mozart babe since June," Neal explained, distracted. He'd sometimes wondered how people managed with an incurable illness. Was he about to find out? The thought that an ancient Greek goddess could have a psychic hold on him and was now capable of feeding off his life force seemed too bizarre to be believed. But Scott Pembroke had passed away from a wasting disease that baffled his doctors. To Neal's knowledge, no one had ever determined how he'd died.

Bobby closed his notebook and shoved it back inside his pocket. "Don't get yourself tied up in knots over this. Assuming we're right, it takes a long time for any effect to show up. For that artist Scott Pembroke, his widow said the first symptoms happened over a year before he succumbed. Neal's not showing any signs. As for Sam . . ." He studied him for a moment. "I'll call that a maybe. In any case we still got a lotta time. But no more holding back, okay?"

For the past two days Neal had succeeded in quarantining off the fear, but no longer. For a minute raw panic consumed him. Klaus, Rolf, Adler—they were men. He could con them, fight them, take them down. Last resort, he could run away or fake his death. But against a goddess? He couldn't simply pack up and leave town or change his identity. She was inside him, feeding off him . . .

Neal gripped his knee under the table with his hand till it hurt, hoping the pain would ease the sense of helplessness. Sam and Bobby were discussing various curses they and other hunters had been able to remove. Dean got out his dad's journal and read several passages from it. Sam was taking it in stride. Dean was looking grim but he wasn't flailing around either.

Peter. Neal's thoughts grabbed hold of him. Focus on him, not yourself. How will you approach it? Your role is vital in the con. It's doomed to failure unless you participate. If Peter sees you like this, he'll slam it down. Is that what you want? Let Adler and the Mansfelds go free?

The fear receded as Neal focused on what approach to take. Peter and El had invited him over for brunch the next day. He'd wait to tell them then, although that would present its own challenge. Voicing what happened out loud would make Astrena seem all that much more real. It was up to Neal to reassure Peter he was taking it in stride. _Not_ panicking.

Right.

Simply one more additional layer on top of what was already the most complicated con he'd ever attempted. This one might be the hardest. Act as if the link was not a concern. If he could convince the others he wasn't bothered by her, they would relax too.

There was no reason to cancel out of Riffs. Chloe, Dean, Sam—they all wanted him to attend. It would make a good trial run for his strategy.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal and Bianka hadn't ever discussed rock music. She didn't know he used to play with Urban Legend, and he didn't plan to tell her. She could think he was boasting to make himself more appealing, and that was the last thing he wanted. From the signals she sent him, she was content with them being just friends, and that was what he wanted as well.

But that evening when he met her in the lobby of her apartment building and her eyes lit up at the sight of him in his black leather rocker pants, a bell dinged a warning in his head. Had he misread her?

On the other hand, her pants were tighter than his and that tunic top wasn't leaving much to the imagination. Maybe Bianka simply had a secret rock side. They were both playing hooky from the student grind. Perhaps she was simply appreciative, but Neal made a mental note for extra vigilance against any come-on signals.

Bianka was too hot not to be swarmed by admirers. As soon as classes started she'd ditch him—an agreeable resolution. And as long as she was willing to hang out with him as friends, she provided a good diversion for any lurking matchmakers, like his cousin Henry.

He wished he could take Sara to Riffs. She'd never heard him sing on stage. But Henry lived close to the Village and went there often with his boyfriend Eric. There'd be too big a risk of discovery.

Riffs had only been open for a month, but it was already one of the hottest night spots in Lower Manhattan. When they arrived, the place was almost full. The others had arrived ahead of them and claimed a table. Bianka wasn't the only one who was transformed. Both Chloe and Maia had radical makeovers. Like Bianka they were in skintight pants and loose tunics. Maia was the most stunning. She could have been a model. Was this the same quiet classics scholar Neal had seen at the book stall in New Jersey? Chloe had mentioned Maia asked her for wardrobe advice. Sam was clearly appreciative.

Some things never changed. Dean and Sam were in their standard t-shirts and jeans. Over drinks, rock music was a common topic. It came as a welcome relief to not discuss auras, curses, vampires, or anything else supernatural.

Neal hadn't had a chance to talk with Chloe about her new job and asked for details.

"I'm working at Wooster Publishers," she explained. "Their office is close to Columbia."

"Wooster in one of the top five technical publishers in the country," Maia added. "It's quite impressive to be hired by them."

"Chloe's been annoyingly vague about what she's working on," Dean teased. "All I know is that it's a self-help series. If she expects to hear me sing, I need a name."

Chloe the one keeping secrets? Usually that's what Dean and Sam did to her. From the glance she gave him, the irony wasn't lost on her, although she couldn't say much. Neal suspected Sam hadn't told Maia anything about what he did either.

"This will cost you two songs," Chloe said, "but if you must know, it's a new series called _Dork Guides_." She raised an eyebrow, daring Dean to say anything.

Neal suppressed his snicker while enjoying Sam and Dean's reactions. They couldn't tell the others why they were losing it without explaining her connection to the dork disaster in Buttonwood, but you'd have to think that somewhere a demonic imp was smiling about her new job.

"Is there some joke about dorks and guides?" Bianka asked, looking bewildered. "My American slang is not very good. I have to be careful. Even the most ordinary word can carry a sexual overtone. Is _dork_ like _dick_?"

Maia giggled and high fived her. "You just invented a new slang expression!" She leaned over to Sam and murmured, "How's my favorite dork?"

The conversation degenerated from there. Neal wished for Sara. As someone who liked to muddle words, she'd have a connoisseur's appreciation.

During one of the music breaks, Neal took Dean to the stage to sign up for slots. As they made their way through their crowd, Neal spotted the club's owner, Jeremy Sangford, and introduced him to Dean. Jeremy was a Brit. In another era he would have been classified a decadent. He had a monastic look about his lean features. Neal figured he was around thirty. His dry humor took some getting used to, but Neal had to give him credit where it was due. He knew music and was passionate about it.

The stage was equipped with a wide array of keyboards and drums which were available for use by any of the musicians. There was an electric harpsichord like the one used by John Lennon. Neal figured that was a nod to any baroque rock music fans in the crowd. He also spotted an electric sitar which must have been planted especially for Henry.

Neal had arranged for a loaner guitar to be there for Dean. Dean was a classic kind of guy. He wanted an acoustic guitar. Neal also would perform unplugged, and had brought along his guitar from home.

Dean eyed the crowd uneasily. "I've never performed before such a large crowd."

"You want me to be your backup?"

Dean grinned his relief at the offer. Neal might not be in any good against vampires but here he was on familiar ground. They signed up late enough in the evening, so Dean's jitters could have a chance to be washed away by beer.

When it was their turn to perform, Dean started it off with a soulful version of "A Simple Man." For someone who'd been nervous about performing, he warmed up to it quickly. Neal wanted to play something classic to match Dean's tastes and followed him with Journey's "Wheel in the Sky." The crowd's response to them was enthusiastic with shouts for more. Neal coerced Dean to join him in belting out the pounding lyrics of Jamie Dunlap's "Down on Love." When their set was up, Dean didn't want to leave.

Late in the evening a new performer went on stage. Middle-aged dude sporting a Rod Stewart hairstyle. He appropriated the bongo drums and began reciting Ginsberg poetry. Did the others recognize Mozzie? Sam and Dean were too lost in their dates to pay him much mind.

"He's really quite good," Bianka said. "Is that his own poetry?"

While Neal explained who Ginsberg was, he glanced around the room. There she was—Janet as he'd never seen her before. Mozzie's girlfriend had covered her short spiky hair with a mane reminiscent of Bon Jovi in the '80s. Janet the rock chick. Sara liked wearing disguises. Maybe she could come to Riffs after all.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Little mouse out on the town with her moose? Does her big sister know?"

Crowley rolled his chair back from the surveillance monitor and crossed his arms behind his head, letting his mind roam over the enticing meadow of possibilities.

How much should he tell Jeremy? He'd been working with him for a month now. Lutar may have been Electra's favorite, but in Crowley's not so humble opinion, Jeremy was the champion pure-blood of the litter. Despite his occasional fiery glow, Jeremy was as cold and ruthless as Electra. That could be the reason why Electra hadn't embraced him like she had Lutar. The thought excited Crowley. He'd worked hand in glove with him to set up the operation at Riffs. Jeremy valued his business acumen and relied upon him for advice.

And not just for business. Crowley had worked with an interior decorator to execute Jeremy's vision for his living quarters over the club. The room he was currently in was Crowley's favorite. Inner sanctum, the ultimate pure-blood lair, call it what you will. It was an opulent den of indulgence with a high tech wall for their cyber operations. A bank of monitors maintained constant surveillance of the rabble below. Japanese screens, oriental rugs . . . the stuffed peacocks may have been a little over the top, but they suited Jeremy.

Jeremy was the role model of what the modern pure-blood should be. Urbane, polished, decadent, tech-savvy, and most important of all—he maintained a low profile. The few fangs in his service were newly turned geeks. He controlled them with an iron will. No blood feasts or slaughters that had given the bloodsuckers such a bad name.

Crowley heard footsteps outside and checked the camera on the staircase. The prince was coming. Jeremy opened the door, gave a brief nod, and sprawled on the sofa. "Checking the books?"

"That was my original intent, but I found your video feed far more entertaining. You have a packed house tonight."

"Our popularity continues to increase," Jeremy agreed. His bass voice had the educated accent of the upper classes, a refreshing change to the commoners frequenting the club. "Some of the singers were better than the usual crowd."

Crowley rewound the feed of one of the cameras to show one table. "Do you know who these people are?"

He stood up and sauntered over to study the monitor. "The one in black is Neal Caffrey. He's been here a few times and is popular with the crowd. The chap sitting to his right is a newcomer. First name's Dean. He didn't give his last name."

"It's Winchester. The other man is his brother, Sam. They're hunters."

"Are they now?" He examined the feed more closely. "Dean looks a lot like another chap who comes here often. I wonder if they're related."

"What's his name?"

"Henry Winslow."

Crowley wrote it down. Winslow was disturbingly close to Winchester. "Vague resemblance or two peas in a pod similar?"

"They dress differently. Their singing styles aren't the same." Jeremy shrugged. "I'd have to see them side by side but offhand they're bloody close."

Another Winchester to contend with? Crowley groaned silently at the injustice of the world. What he needed was an anti-love potion to give to both sisters. "The blonde seated to Sam's left is Maia. The brunette is Chloe Bishop. She's harmless. A writer, I believe." Maia had adopted a new look. His little mouse had cast off her peasant attire. Was that Chloe's influence?

"I've only met Astrena, or I suppose I should call her Electra now. Does Maia know who I am?"

"Unclear. I would have thought Electra had told her, but we shouldn't assume anything. Maia and I have an understanding. I'll find out soon enough. As for Cheekbones Caffrey—Electra's piped into him."

"Is he the artist with the FBI?"

"That's right."

"She told me about an artist in New York she was feeding off of but didn't give his name. I found him a curious choice. The FBI isn't the standard employment for an artist."

"He's also a thief and a forger." His meatsuit Hagen had admired Caffrey. He believed they were members of the same club, even though Caffrey had worked with the FBI to ensnare him. They were both opportunists. Crowley was cut from the same cloth. Electra would appreciate that more if Caffrey were no longer in play. "The woman with Caffrey is Bianka Kaldy. Electra is, shall we say, not fond of her. She hexed her last week."

Jeremy's eyes narrowed to slits, a smile darting across his face. "Do you want me to take care of her?"

"Not yet, but have your people monitor them. Keep records of when they come here and who they're with."

"Knowledge is power?"

"And leverage." Crowley went over to the bar to help himself to a Glencraig. His empire was looking more secure by the moment.

 **Burke Townhouse. Sunday morning.**

For Sunday brunch, Peter had designated himself head chef. Pecan pancakes with maple syrup were on the menu. His sous-chef El had made blackberry mint mules. Neal arrived in time to be given a master class in the art of making the perfect pancake.

The weather was cooperating with abundant sunshine and low humidity. They carried their plates outside to eat on the patio, followed closely by their yellow Lab, Satchmo. Ever hopeful of an unexpected treat, Satch was no dummy. He focused on Neal, the soft touch.

Over brunch, Neal related the latest news from Angela. "She called this morning. All systems are go for the _Bunnicula_ performance next weekend. Even better, she's back to normal. She'd hardly let Michael and me get a word in edgewise."

El raised her copper mug. "To Angela, and the heroes who rescued her." As they clinked mugs, she added, "I know I've lectured you both for not being more open, but in this case I approve of Angela not knowing the danger she was in. And I also want to express my appreciation for you sharing the full account with me." She turned to Neal. "When will Angela return?"

"Midmonth. She already has her next challenge to work on. Columbia will hold its first Renaissance fair this fall. Several departments are collaborating on the project."

"Doesn't New York already a Medieval festival?" El asked.

Neal nodded. "In Fort Tryon Park north of Columbia. That's what gave the organizers the idea. The Medieval Festival is on a Sunday around the first of October. People enjoy it so much—particularly the costumes, Peter—that they decided to expand it. Columbia is overseeing an Elizabethan version. Many of the medieval props can be reused. The history department wants to have a reenactment of one of the battles, and the music department will hold demos of Renaissance music. That's where Angela comes in."

The Caffrey family was a large one with its roots in Ireland. Neal had many distant relatives who were musicians and made their living at the festivals. Peter suspected Angela was already contacting them. "Does Mozzie know about this?" he asked. "Is that why he's developing honey mead?"

Neal shrugged. "He does have an inside track on any events going on at the university."

"He's not using the tunnel system to spy on Columbia?"

Neal grinned. "He doesn't need to. He has official status now that he's on the SETI committee."

"You're not the only one with good news," El said. "Electra helped fast-track the community playhouse's request for funding. She called me yesterday to say that the application was approved."

"Congratulations! Have you decided on your first production?"

"With Electra providing so much assistance, it was an easy choice," El said. "We're going with the play she picked. _Bell, Book and Candle_."

"Will you play the witch?" Neal asked.

El nodded. "Peter, don't grumble. I'm looking forward to playing a witch, but I promise to be a very good witch. No evil spells coming from me!" Her expression grew more serious. "Peter mentioned you were meeting with Chloe and Bobby yesterday. Do you have any news?"

Neal knew that Peter had told El about Astrena, but he still looked uncomfortable. Peter's stomach twisted with abrupt nausea. He put down his fork and steeled himself.

Neal swirled a piece of pancake in syrup for a moment before answering. "I may be able to serve as an expert on witches for El. It seems that I'm linked to one." He explained what had occurred the previous afternoon. "I hope you appreciate that I'm being open, and I expect you not to freak out over it." He looked pointedly at Peter. Why did he think El could handle it better than him?

"How do you want us to react?" El asked quietly.

"Like I am. Not blowing it out of proportion."

"Neal, you've been confirmed to have a link to an evil goddess who's sucking out I don't know what!" Peter blurted, unable to restrain himself. "This is not an everyday occurrence!"

"Look at it this way," he suggested. "If Bobby's right, Sam and I've been under her influence since Buttonwood, but we're fine."

"That's debatable, at least for Sam," El pointed out. "Didn't he just spend several days in bed?"

Neal shrugged acknowledgment. "And it's possible that what Sam had was not the stomach flu, but I have a friend who had almost exactly the same symptoms. Bobby and Dean feel confident there's a way to sever the link. Chloe is working with Mozzie and Bobby to research solutions." Neal paused. "I don't like this either, but I have to deal with it. I've decided to treat it like Harry Potter's lightning scar. He lived with it. So can I."

"Need I remind you that the Harry Potter novels are entertainment, not an instructional guide?" Peter said, swatting down the notion.

Neal looked at him anxiously. He wanted Peter to be reassuring, say that everything would be okay, and they'd carry on as normal. But how could he?

"People live with far worse conditions than this for which there's no hope of a cure," Neal said. "I could have come down with leukemia or been maimed by a bullet. Stuff happens, but we deal with it."

Did he realize what he was doing? Comparing the psychic connection to a life-threatening illness? Neal wasn't trying so much to reassure them as himself. Peter could hear the walls snapping up around the curse to quarantine it from the others.

That mention of Harry Potter . . . Neal had explained how he channeled someone else to deal with stress. In Shepherdstown it was the Swamp Fox. Was it now Harry Potter? J.K. Rowling's character had his nemesis Voldemort inside his head at times. Peter used to think that Harry's situation was similar to Neal's fake memories. What kind of mind games would Astrena subject him to, all the while feeding off him like some parasite?

"You're right," El said, grasping his hand. "And together we'll find a solution." Upbeat words which she tried to reflect in her manner.

Peter took a deep breath. "How do you want to handle it with your family?"

"I'd rather not tell anyone who doesn't already know anything about Astrena." He gave a wry smile. "They'll think I've gone psycho. If I start to show symptoms . . ." He shrugged.

El eyed him disapprovingly. "Not even tell Noelle?"

He looked at her appalled. "No way! I'd have to explain our entire history with witches and vampires. Then I'd have to tell her about Angela. Noelle would want to speak with her. She'd tell Angela's mother. It'd never stop. The grandparents would find out." His words trailing off, he shoved his hair off his forehead.

El pursed her lips. "You know I'm not in favor of keeping others in the dark, but I see your point. If you talk about one incident, you'll have to include everything."

"You'll need to tell the team," Peter reminded him. "No hidden gotchas, remember?"

Neal nodded unhappily. "Admitting to them I'm cursed is not something I look forward to."

"I hear ya. I felt the same when I had to admit about vampires running amok in New Jersey. But now I'm glad I did. You'll have an easier time. The team was already concerned about you being a target. This won't be a revelation as much as a confirmation."

"Janet feels Chloe has a rare gift for working with herbs," El said. "That concoction she made to keep you from being recognized by vampires couldn't have been easy to produce. With her, Peony, and Mozzie working together, they're bound to find a way to break the hold that goddess has on you. Bobby will be searching for a solution too. There has to be some potion or spell which will work."

Neal smiled. "Without turning me into a dork? My fate's in their hands."

Dean must be experiencing the same emotions Peter was. He made a mental note to give Dean a call after Neal left.

Neal was sipping his drink, not saying anything.

"When was your last checkup?"

"Christie gave me a thorough physical when we returned from California. She found nothing wrong."

"Having Diana's partner as your doctor will simplify matters. You'll alert Diana along the other members of the team tomorrow. You'll need to do the same with Christie. I'll make arrangements for her to receive the autopsy and medical reports of the artist who died in Connecticut."

Peter was glad Neal didn't try to argue him out of it. The curse was supernatural but the potential effects on his body would manifest themselves as physical symptoms. "You promise me to let me know—and I mean _immediately_ —if you detect any change."

Neal locked eyes with him. "You have my word."

Peter knew what had to be done. He didn't like it, but he had no choice. Slamming the brakes on the con against Adler and Ydrus wouldn't remove the threat. Neal's situation would be even more precarious, and his frustration over not being able to proceed could lead to the situation quickly escalating out of control. Base case, Neal would be more inclined to take risks than ever before. From his perspective, what did he have to lose? No matter which way Peter sliced it, it was a bad situation, and Neal would need to be closely monitored. Peter took a breath. "So, you ready for this con to start?"

Neal flashed him a grateful look. "More than ever. Mozzie delivered the painting. At your signal, our contact André will spread the word. On his way back from France, Mozzie prepared a worklist of the tactics he'll use to spread rumors of the U-boat's discovery. He said he'll send you the file tonight."

"He'll make use of the sensational media, I expect."

"That plus chat rooms, social media. Rumors about a U-boat discovery will begin circulating shortly after Henry returns from his trip. In addition, I'm told there will be sensational tales of Hitler clones being spotted in Argentina."

"Good man," Peter said. "Do you still intend to make that ghost video?"

Neal winced. "You caught me. When this started, I planned to tease Henry about all the reported ghost sightings there. Now, he'll get a pass. I'll figure something else out."

"Knowing you, it will be even better." Peter attempted to project the assurance he hoped he'd eventually feel. "We've all got our assignments." If Neal was channeling Harry Potter, what did that make him? Dumbledore? Surely not Hagrid. He could just see the costume.

El collected their plates. "Peter and I have already been practicing our roles."

Neal pushed back his chair. "Let me help."

"Not today, thanks. I made banana parfaits for dessert. They just need the finishing touches. I'll be right back." She glanced at Satchmo who'd bounded over when she stood up. "Your task is to keep Satchmo from following me into the kitchen. His services won't be required today."

Neal went over to a basket of toys which they stored on the patio and tossed Satchmo a squeaky tiger. "You know, when we arrived in Shepherdstown and you thought you saw Crowley?"

Peter rose to stand next to him. "Yeah?"

Neal smiled. "I thought I'd driven you over the edge and you were seeing things."

"Understandable. Then when you came down to breakfast the next day, talking about demonic dulcimers and vampires, I was convinced you'd lost it. I was half a mind to call up Doc Jacob and make an appointment for you."

"But your gut was right about Crowley. That's a good lesson."

"And your instincts were right about Angela. Between my gut and your instincts, we make quite a team."

"Yeah, we do," Neal said softly, his mask dropping for a moment to reveal the scared kid inside. For all his brave words, Neal was more upset than he'd let on about the curse. Seeing that glimpse of fear in his eyes was the antidote Peter needed.

"Every dragon has its weak spot. We'll find Astrena's."

Neal shot him a surprised look.

"It will take more than a goddess to break up our partnership. You have me and El, Henry, White Collar, and Mozzie on your side. Now you've got the Winchesters, Chloe, not to mention Upper Manhattan's resident psychic. You'll beat this and come out stronger than ever."

Neal swung around and wrapped him in a quick one-arm hug, surprising him. Neal rarely initiated hugs. It made Peter believe his brave words would actually happen.

"Thanks, Peter."

He patted Neal on the back. "It's gonna work out."

Neal stepped back and grinned. "Did we just have a chick flick moment?"

"I guess we did," he said, chuckling. "El would love it."

* * *

 _Notes: Thanks very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. Will Astrena fade into the background while the team runs the U-boat con? I wouldn't count on it. The action resumes on May 2 when I begin posting Harlequin's Shadow. If you'd like to refresh your memory on what happened in the previous story, Nocturne in Black and Gold, I've written a blog post giving a status update on the characters. The post is called "Prelude to Harlequin's Shadow."_

 _A few notes to this story: The blackberry mint mules El serves are an Easter egg to the Dinner at Tiffani's episode "A Rustic Luncheon." Tiffani's guests were Matt Bomer and Tim DeKay, and blackberry mint mules were on the menu. There's a photo of the three of them at the luncheon on the Pinterest board. Also on the Pinterest board is a video of Jensen Ackles singing "A Simple Man."_

 _The next story in the Crossed Lines series will be Night Howls on the Hudson. I'll post it starting in September._

 _Till next time!_

 _Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dark Rabbit board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


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